


That's Just Wasteland, Baby

by king_finn



Series: Wasteland, Baby [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Feral Behavior, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, Multi, Mute!Jaskier, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Yes beta we die happy, no one has a good time, original cat character, slow burn but Different, y'all are in for a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:02:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 70,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23094514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: "His eyes fall on the floor next to the bed, and they grow wide, mouth opening in shock. There, on the wood, lies Geralt’s sword, bloodstains marring the silver of the blade. Dark spots litter the floor next to it, half-dried pools that reflect the sunlight red into his eyes.Something happened to Geralt."AKAAfter Geralt mysteriously disappears from their beach-side cottage, Jaskier is left wondering what happened to his love and, most importantly, how to get him back. He reunites with Yennefer and Ciri, and together, they team up with some allies they never knew they had, to rescue Geralt from whoever abducted him. If he's still alive, that is.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Wasteland, Baby [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646026
Comments: 297
Kudos: 313





	1. I Would Shun The Light, Share In Evening's Cool And Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> Finally! Part 2 of the Wasteland, Baby series! I'm very proud of it so far, and I really can't wait for y'all to read it. Spoiler: it's very angsty (with maybe a happy ending, who knows). Also the tags don't say much right now, but I'll add more as the story progresses, to avoid spoilers and stuff.  
> Also! I want to thank everyone who left kudos and/or comments on part 1 of this series, it means a lot to me and I love y'all so much!
> 
> Without further ado: thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!
> 
> (Also follow me on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3, I post moodboards and teasers and stuff, it's a great time, and you can come yell at me if you want)

Morning light falls on Jaskier’s face, and he stretches out, joints popping a bit before he settles back into the blankets. He reaches a hand out, in search of Geralt’s warmth, but opens his eyes in surprise and confusion when he only finds cold sheets under his fingertips. The bed is empty, a deep dent where his Witcher had been sleeping.

He frowns, but then smiles. Maybe Geralt went out to buy groceries – after all, they had finished the last of their bread yesterday - or he’s somewhere else in the seaside cottage. Probably taking a bath, or preparing breakfast, as he had been doing every morning for the past few weeks.

Jaskier smiles again and sits up, stretching his arms over his head again, basking in the early sunlight warming his skin.

His eyes fall on the floor next to the bed, and they grow wide, mouth opening in shock. There, on the wood, lies Geralt’s sword, bloodstains marring the silver of the blade. Dark spots litter the floor next to it, half-dried pools that reflect the sunlight red into his eyes.

He scrambles off the bed, falling on his knees painfully, next to Geralt’s sword, legs tangled in the sheets, blood staining his skin. He feels numb, realization not fully settled in yet, and he reaches for the sword, hands trembling, the shaking spreading across the rest of his body. Geralt’s name repeats like a mantra in his head as he picks the weapon up, running a finger across the silver blade, flecks of dried blood falling onto the floor.

His breath becomes ragged, and he startles at the loud noise the sword makes as he drops it, hands instinctively coming up to cover his ears. Panic starts to flood him, eyes spilling over, and he tries to get up. He falls on his chin painfully as the sheets, still tangled around his legs, drag him back down, and he can taste blood. He turns on his back, kicking at the fabric frantically until he’s finally freed.

He stands up, unsure of what to do, hands coming up to form fists in his hair. He feels the pain in his scalp from far away, and his hands tug at his hair harder, desperate to feel something other than blind panic, to ground himself in reality before he’s swept up by his fears. _Think, Jaskier._

He looks down, and notices the blood on his knees and shins. A trembling hand reaches out to a corner of the blankets, trying to wipe the redness off his skin, but stains still remain. He gives up, and drops the sheet on the floor. _Clothes_ – he realizes he’s still very much naked, and takes a few shaky steps towards the wardrobe.

He throws on whatever he can find, which turns out to be trousers and one of Geralt’s black shirts. It smells of the ocean and freshly baked bread – the familiar scent that always hung around his Witcher these days comforting him slightly.

He looks around, and manages to find a pair of boots under the bed, pulling them on. He bends down again, hand reaching for the leather bag full of weapons Geralt kept there, ‘ _just to be safe_ ’. Jaskier snorts, as he realizes it hasn’t done them any good, since, well... Geralt is gone.

He buries his face in his shaking hands, as he feels tears well up behind his eyes again, pushing them away with all his might. He eventually manages to supress them, and opens the leather bag, taking out a sharp-looking dagger.

The weight is unfamiliar and uncomfortable in his hands, the metal scraping against his engagement ring, catching on the engraved waves. He pushes away the memories that resurface, and gets up, holding onto the weapon with one hand, pushing the door to the kitchen open with his other.

It’s empty and spotless, the only blood on the floor threaded on it by Jaskier himself as he walks to the bathroom. He looks around the kitchen, and notices that not a single thing is out of place. _Weird._

The bathroom is equally unbothered, and he closes the door softly, leaning against the wall. On one hand, he’s relieved that he hasn’t found any enemies or worse –, a body. On the other hand, his fear only grows. If Geralt isn’t here, then where is he?

He checks the windows around the cottage, but they’re all closed, except for one – the window in the bedroom is open a crack. He opens it completely, looking for any signs of blood on the windowsill, but he finds none. He looks down, the sand outside undisturbed. He frowns.

So they didn’t go out through the kitchen – as it’s completely undisturbed, no blood on the floor, and they didn’t go out through the window. The pieces click together in his mind to spell out a single word: magic.

They must’ve portalled in and out of the bedroom, taking his Witcher, and somehow not waking Jaskier up in the process. He frowns, and closes the window again, sitting on the bed. He startles as cold metal touches his foot, but it’s just Geralt’s sword. He looks at it and bends down, scratching at the dried flakes of blood on the blade, brow furrowed in thought.

The attack must’ve happened a few hours ago at the very least, judging by the dried state of the blood on the sword and on the floor. What else does he know?

He knows they used magic. He knows there are probably multiple people involved – as there’s no way anyone could abduct a Witcher on their own. And he knows that at least one of the attackers had gotten hurt, judging by the blood on the sword.

He feels a sick sense of satisfaction from that thought – the knowledge that his love hadn’t gone with the abductors without putting up a fight, at the very least.

He feels something relax in him. Surely Geralt is still alive. After all, why go through all that trouble to kill a Witcher and then take his body away? No, they’re definitely keeping him somewhere. That, however, raises a whole new fear in Jaskier’s chest, because who knows what they could be doing to his love right now?

He pushes away vivid images of torture from his mind, and rubs a hand over his face, almost cutting into his eye with the dagger he’s still holding. He drops it onto the bed, and tries to figure out what his next move is.

He can’t stay here on his own. Sure, the attackers probably won’t come back – after all, they had an opportunity to kill him while he was sleeping, and they didn’t. But he needs to find Geralt, something he can’t do on his own. He needs Yennefer’s help.

He leans forward, burying his head in his hands as he thinks. He’s halfway across the Continent, with no transport – they had left Roach at home and travelled by portal – and no voice to ask for help. Yennefer had agreed to open another portal so they could go back to Lyria, at an agreed date, which is still weeks away. He sighs, and looks up, something silver on the bottom of the wardrobe reflecting the sunlight into his eyes.

He stands up, walking over to it, and taking the heavy rectangle in his hands, wrapped in black cloth. He frowns, as he doesn’t remember packing this for their vacation. He carries it to the kitchen, sitting down at the table, and taking the black drapes off the mysterious thing.

He gasps slightly, and tears form in his eyes again. _Thank the gods._ It’s a mirror, its surface black, and he instinctively knows this is a magic mirror, like the one his best friend had in her study. _A line of communication._

He picks up the cloths that had been wrapped around it, a paper falling from them, and he takes it into his hands, folding it open. He’s greeted with Yennefer’s painfully familiar handwriting, loopy and neat.

“ _To use the mirror, say the name of the person you want to contact and their location.”_

Great. He can’t exactly do that, can he – he’s _mute_. Luckily, Yennefer had anticipated this sort of thing, as right underneath, she continued:

“ _If you can’t speak, lay your hand on the surface, and think the name and location._ ” He can do that. He props the mirror up against the wall, sitting opposite it at the other end of the table. He leans forwards, feeling the cool surface against his palm, the edge of the table digging into the soft flesh of his abdomen, closing his eyes.

_Yennefer of Vengerberg, Aywith, Lyria._

He opens his eyes again as the blackness of the mirror starts swirling, eventually clearing up and morphing into Yennefer’s study, painfully familiar even from this strange, new angle.

He nearly sobs as he sees his best friend standing at the table in the middle of the room, her back towards him, her elbows on the wooden surface. She doesn’t look up, and Jaskier resorts to knocking on the table he’s sitting at. Yennefer looks up, but in the wrong direction, towards the entrance to her Magic Room, and Jaskier curses himself for being so stupid. Of course she would think someone was at the door, before even considering the magic mirror.

He leans forwards again, knocking two times on the mirror, and Yennefer looks back, purple eyes growing wide as she takes in his dishevelled state. “Jaskier, are you okay?”

He pauses for a second, and suddenly the walls he’s built up around his emotions crumble, and he starts sobbing, lowering his face into his hands, the cool ridges of his engagement ring digging into the soft skin of his cheek. He hears her say something on the other side of the mirror, but the words don’t register in his mind, washed away by the tidal wave of emotions breaking loose.

He sits there for a few seconds, when a hand touches his shoulder softly, making him flinch. He looks up with bleary eyes, and sees Yennefer standing next to him.

“What happened, Jaskier?” He sobs again, and his hands come up to form words, but they’re shaking too much, and he lowers them again, opting to simply point to the bedroom instead. He hiccups softly as Yennefer makes her way over to the bedroom, regarding the chaos and blood inside, and she turns back to him, voice shaky and unsure. “Geralt?”

He shrugs, the movement choppy and forced, and looks down. She walks back over to him, and lowers herself onto her knees, pulling him in a tight hug. He starts sobbing again, holding her tightly, and he can feel the wetness of his best friend’s own silent tears on his shoulder.

She breathes shakily. “How am I going to tell Ciri?” He tightens his arms around her, as another wave of fear and grief washes over him. Of course. The little girl considers Geralt her father, and she will be heartbroken to know he had disappeared.

He lets go, and pushes Yennefer away, her purple eyes hazed over, holding her at an arm’s length, before starting to sign, his hands a little less shaky than before: “ **We’ll get through this. We’ll find him…** ”

Yennefer nods, finishing his sentence for him. “We have to.”

She stands up abruptly, looking into the bedroom, and taking his arm in a vice-like grip into her hand. He looks at her questioningly, and she starts dragging him outside. “Come on, you’re going home.”

He wrenches his arm from her grip just as they reach the front door. “ **No! I’m staying! We have to find Geralt and I can’t do that from halfway across the Continent!** ”

Yennefer sighs, opening the door, the soft summer breeze blowing sand into the house. “I know, but you can’t help here. I’ll have to see what I can find out from the bedroom, and you’ll just be in the way.” She throws her hands up at his offended look.

“I’m sorry! That’s just how it is. I’ll be able to concentrate better if you’re not there. And Jaskier,” she cups his face, looking him in the eyes, her purple ones as scared as he feels, “this is for Geralt’s good. Okay?” He nods, uncertain, and she smiles at him sadly.

He stumbles a step backwards as Yennefer pushes him, and he finds himself in the familiar garden in Lyria, the portal closing in front of his face, taking Yennefer and the beach-side cottage with it. He falls on his knees in the soft grass and bends forward until his forehead is touching the soil, his forearms holding him steady as he curls in on himself, soft sobs wracking his body.

His mind wanders back to yesterday, right before he fell asleep. How he was thinking about how lucky he was, to have Geralt by his side. He curses himself for tempting fate, a part of him blaming himself for what had happened to his Witcher. _If he hadn’t been asleep, if he had woken up, if he hadn’t tempted fate, if he hadn’t taken him to the beach in the first place, if, if, if._

His thoughts run around in circles as he lies there, tears dripping into the soft summer grass, tickling his cheeks as they roll down. He feels as though the ground is falling away from underneath him, and he’s falling as well, into the abyss – into the darkness.

Some manic part in the back of his mind tells him it’s all one big dream, just a nightmare he’ll wake up from soon enough, only to find himself in the arms of the love of his life. Safe, warm, protected. Yet, he knows it’s just a beautiful lie – some last sliver of naïve hope to cling onto, as he falls into the abyss.

The grass under him is real, the tears rolling down his face are real, the pain in his chest is real. He’s awake, but trapped in a living nightmare – a personal hell, designed for him by Destiny.

He wishes for nothing more than to hear soft footsteps in the grass, a gravelly voice above him, and strong arms wrapping around him. He wishes for nothing more than to feel the hot breath against his ears, whispering soft words of comfort as Geralt holds him. He wishes for nothing more than to know his love is here, and safe.

A beautiful dream, a fool’s hope.

Instead, he’s alone in the garden, the early morning sunshine on his back not able to warm him as his chest feels eerily cold without the weight of his Witcher against it, his arms painfully empty, the garden around him woefully quiet.

Geralt is gone, and Jaskier is alone in the abyss, left thinking of the last time he saw his love, the evening before. A small part of him finds comfort in their last memory together being Geralt sighing contentedly and drifting off to sleep, as Jaskier drew ‘ _I love you’_ s into his skin. Not to mention that he has some six months’ worth of memories of bright laughter and stolen kisses.

It does little to calm him down.

He sobs again, and curls in on himself further, the emptiness in him growing, as if a cold wind had frozen the valleys and meadows in his chest – making it a wasteland once again.

Because Jaskier’s alone in the abyss, and Geralt is gone.


	2. Who Would Trade That Hum Of Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> First of all, I forgot to mention in the first chapter's notes that the fic title is from Wasteland, Baby, and the chapter titles are from Sunlight, both by Hozier (to fit in with the titles from the first part of this series lmao.)  
> Secondly, this is a different form of slow burn (don't know how else to describe it) so not a lot will happen in this chapter action-wise, but feeling-wise? Ooh boy, a lot of feelings happen.
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He lies there in the grass for a while, still softly sobbing, curled in on himself. He startles as he feels a small hand on his shoulder, and he looks up, meeting Ciri’s green eyes. She looks worried, but not fearful, and he realizes she doesn’t know what’s going on yet.

He stretches his back, sitting on his knees as he looks at her. “ **Ciri, I’m so sorry…** ”

Her eyes widen and she clutches at his shoulder, her grip painful, her hand trembling. “What’s going on?” She looks scared now, and he doesn’t blame her. The silence lasts too long and she shakes him, fingers pressing bruises into his skin. “What’s going on?!”

He sighs, not daring to look her in her eyes, as he signs. “ **Geralt is gone.** ”

Her voice is shrill and desperate. “What do you mean, _gone?_ ” Her body shakes with suppressed emotions, and he takes a hold of her wrist, softly, before letting go again.

“ **I don’t know. Abducted, I think.** ” She lets go of his shoulder, and he rubs the skin there for a bit. She paces next to him, hands folded behind her back, frowning as she thinks. It reminds him of Yennefer, and the way she always paces around her study, Moon following on her heel, whenever she’s faced with a particularly challenging potion or spell, or when Jaskier’s just being very annoying.

His mind wanders back to the beach-side cottage, and he wonders if Yennefer’s found anything interesting or useful yet, something to lead them to Geralt or whoever abducted him. Ciri suddenly stops pacing, and he looks up as she opens a portal. _Didn’t know she could do that._

He grabs onto her arm, looking at her questioningly. “I’m going to Oxenfurt, to help Yennefer.” She tries to move away, through the portal, but he keeps holding onto her wrist, a pleading look in his eyes. He doesn’t want her to leave as well, doesn’t want to be alone, doesn’t want to risk losing her too.

She sighs, and puts her hand over his. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.” Something in his chest tightens painfully as the girl seems to look right into his glass heart, and he nods, letting go. She steps through the portal, and it closes behind her, leaving him alone in the garden, the smell of ozone and the whizzing of magic in the air his only company.

She has grown so much in the past six months, he realizes, as he thinks back to the first time he saw her since the fall of Cintra.

҉ ҉ ҉

_It was early in the morning, and sunshine fell on Jaskier’s face, blinding him as his eyes blinked open. He groaned and turned away from the brightness, sighing contentedly as he felt his Witcher’s chest rise and fall softly beneath his cheek, the soft fabric of Geralt’s shirt tickling his skin._

_The steady rhythm of his love’s heart, and the deep breathing told him Geralt was still asleep, and he smiled, laying completely still as to not wake the other. He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of Geralt’s breathing when his Witcher was asleep, during all those nights they had slept close to each other, during their travels. But the slow, steady heartbeat, he hadn’t heard in all those years, until a week ago._

_He smiled again, as he realized how perfectly they had adapted to each other’s proximity, as if they had been waiting, ready for each other all along. He frowned a little, though his smile was still on his face, as he tried to put it into words, but just couldn’t. Some poet he was – a small voice in the back of his mind said._

_But then again, no song could describe how perfect they were for each other; no poem could convey how completely happy and at peace he felt, more than he’d ever done in his life._

_He lifted his head up as he felt the rhythm of Geralt’s breathing change, meeting eyes like molten gold. “ **Good morning.** ” _

_Geralt smiled at him, threading his fingers through the brown locks, as he whispered a “good morning,” back at the Bard._

_They both startled as the door slammed against the wall, Geralt reaching for the sword next to the bed._

_“Oh, thank the gods, you two finally did it.” Jaskier sighed and turned around, looking at Yennefer, standing in the doorway. He had forgotten she would be coming home today._

_Geralt let go of his sword, sighing as he leaned back into the pillows. “Never learned how to knock?” Yennefer smiled and simply shrugged._

_Jaskier’s attention was drawn by a small giggle, and he pulled up his eyebrow, craning his neck, smiling when he saw Ciri hiding behind the Mage, smiling broadly. He looked back up at Yennefer questioningly._

_His best friend shrugged. “I didn’t want her to see anything… inappropriate.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and Geralt groaned, throwing a pillow in her direction._

_She laughed and ducked away just in time, the pillow flying down the hall to the floor below, and she threw her hands up in surrender. “Oh, I’m_ so _sorry for trying to keep your daughter’s innocence, oh, mighty Witcher.” She shrugged, and turned, ushering a smiling Ciri to the stairs. “We’ll be downstairs when you’re…” she waved her hand vaguely, “done.”_

_Jaskier gasped in mock offense, and she laughed, slamming the door behind her. He could hear their footsteps on the stairs and Ciri’s quiet talking._

_Jaskier smiled, glad to see the girl again, as she held a special place in his glass heart. He remembered the day Geralt claimed the Law of Surprise vividly, but the fondest memories came from all the times he had played at the court of Queen Calanthe on the girl’s birthday, and the weeks he had spent in Cintra shortly after Ciri’s parents had died when she was five. He used to sing her to sleep when she’d had nightmares, back then._

_He had never told Geralt, he realized in that moment, as the Witcher had always been squeamish to talk about the princess, the guilt of not being there for his Child Surprise eating away at him. He had found her now, though, and Jaskier would tell the stories of him and Ciri later, he vowed._

_He turned back to Geralt, who was still looking at the door, golden eyes stormy. Jaskier tapped the dimple in his love’s chin to get his attention._

_“ **Well, at least we weren’t naked.** ” Geralt groaned, and shoved a pillow in the Bard’s face, as Jaskier laughed._

҉ ҉ ҉

Now he’s alone again, for the first time in a year, since Yennefer found him half-dead in Rinde. He’s still sitting in the grass, tear tracks on his face, knees painful. He sighs, and stands up, unsure of what to do now.

He decides to go inside, for starters, where he’s greeted loudly by Moon. He smiles and bends down to scratch her head as she circles around his feet, furry tail tickling his legs. She meows incessantly, looking up at him with those big, blue eyes, and he can tell she’s happy to see him again, even though they’ve only been parted for about a week or so.

Maybe he’s not as alone as he thought he was.

He sits on the couch, staring out the window, Moon in his lap. He’s stroking her absentmindedly with his right hand, his left thumb twirling the engagement ring on his left hand, the nail catching on the ridges of the waves carved into the silver.

He waits for Yennefer and Ciri to return, watching the sun climb higher in the blue sky, the summer breeze making the leaves on the tree rustle. Somehow, he feels at peace, almost numb, the storm that has frozen his wasteland finally calmed down. He knows it won’t last long, though, so he relishes in this temporary quietude of his emotions.

He’s been sitting there for hours, the sun now high in the sky, when he smells the familiar scent of ozone, a crackling in the air: _magic._ He watches as Yennefer helps Ciri through the portal, closing it behind them, walking towards the glass door to the living room.

He sees the defeated look on their faces, and the calmness in him passes, worry rearing up its ugly head along with fear. He pushes Moon from his lap, much to her loud dismay, and stands up, hand unconsciously fiddling with his ring.

Yennefer opens the door for Ciri, and her purple eyes make contact with Jaskier’s blue ones, as Ciri half-runs up to him, her arms around his waist, her face buried in his shirt, tears staining the black fabric even more.

He hugs her tightly, and looks up at his best friend. She sighs, and sits down on the couch, her head in her hands. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

His hands tremble and he closes his eyes, putting almost all his focus in keeping his knees from buckling. Yennefer continues, quietly: “I don’t know who took him, they used a portal to get away and I can’t track it.”

He opens his eyes, and sees her staring daggers at the hands she’s folded in front of her, her elbows on her knees.

She looks up, her purple eyes apologetic. He puts a hand on his chest, just above Ciri’s head, and a finger on his lips, hand becoming flat as he moves it down to the one on his chest. “ **And the blood?** ”

Yennefer sighs again, shaking her head as she leans back, eyes contemplative. “It wasn’t of much use. It was from two different men, neither of them Geralt. That’s all I know.”

He nods, and looks down as Ciri sobs quietly. “I’m sorry, dad.” He shushes her quietly, one hand rubbing her back reassuringly, kissing the top of her head softly. _It’s okay._

The room is quiet, except for the girl’s soft whimpers, and Jaskier’s mind wanders.

҉ ҉ ҉

_It was four months since Ciri had joined them in the hills of Lyria, and he could see her blossoming open. She talked more – sometimes bordering on rambling, just like he always used to do – and her laughter was more frequent, more carefree._

_She was standing on her tiptoes on a small box, the tip of her tongue poking out from her lips as she frowned in concentration, pouring batter into the cake mould. He smiled lightly as she put the bowl down, the grin she gave him lighting up the whole kitchen._

_“ **Well done! Now we just have to put it in the oven.** ” She nodded excitedly and got off the box with a small jump, bouncing on her feet as he took the cake mould and put it in the blistering oven, careful to not hurt himself. His mind flashed back to a little over four months earlier, when he had burnt himself on the very same oven, and Geralt had left him a salve without as much as a word. A few days after that, they had first kissed. _

_He smiled at the memory. Oh, how times had changed._

_He straightened again, shutting the oven door, and looked at Ciri, who was arranging the other ingredients for the cake, shuffling the jars of jam and bowls of fruit around the kitchen table. She looked at him, her eyes suddenly unsure. “Do you think she’ll like it?”_

_He leaned his elbows on the table, opposite her. “ **I know she’ll love it.** ” The brightness returned in the girl’s eyes, making him smile. _

_They were baking a cake for Yennefer’s birthday. Though his best friend refused to celebrate it, Jaskier had remembered the one time she had mentioned that her birthday would be in spring. He had talked to Triss through the magic mirror a few weeks ago to find out the exact date, arranging a surprise party with her and the rest of the family._

_Geralt had mentioned something about needing a new saddle for Roach the day before, at dinner, and Yennefer had offered to go with him to the market – as expected. It gave the rest time to prepare: Jaskier and Ciri baking the Mage’s favourite cake – lemon and strawberry, and Triss decorating the living room._

_They had been unsure about what gifts to give the Sorceress, until Triss had found a purple amethyst in her belongings, the same colour as Yennefer’s eyes. Jaskier had drawn a design for a necklace featuring the gem, Geralt leaning his chin on the Bard’s shoulder, sometimes pointing to something, muttering suggestions in his ear._

_The design had been sent off to the jeweller in Vizima, and Triss would bring it on the day of the party._

_Ciri crouched down in front of the oven, peering through the small window. “I think it’s done!” Jaskier gave her an oven mitt, trusting the girl’s judgement, and she took it out of the oven. She had been right, of course, and the cake was a beautiful golden brown, the scent that spread across the kitchen making his mouth water._

_“ **Careful, it’s hot.** ” Ciri nodded, as she slowly lowered the cake on the table, frowning in concentration. Jaskier took a cutting board, waving it over the cake to make it cool off quicker. He looked at the clock and startled when he realized Geralt and Yenna had been gone for over an hour, and they would surely return soon._

_Ciri noticed it too. “We have to hurry.” He touched the cake tentatively, sighing in relief when he found that it was cool enough to decorate. He took a knife, cutting the cake in two, as Ciri grabbed the strawberry jam._

_She spread it over the bottom half in an even layer, tongue poking out of her lips again in concentration. She looked up when she was done, eyes searching the kitchen, finally spotting what she needed._

_“Can you pass me the whipped cream?” He looked behind him, to where she was pointing, and handed her the bowl. She took it, and spread some of it over the layer of strawberry jam. “Thanks, dad,” she said, not looking up from her work._

_Jaskier stilled, time seeming to come to a halt around him. She had been calling Geralt ‘dad’ for a while now, but she had still addressed Jaskier by his name – he figured because she wasn’t_ his _Child Surprise – until now. Time started moving again and he felt warmth spreading across his chest, unable to keep the wild grin off his face._

_He wanted to say something about it, but rejected the idea, as he would surely make things awkward if he did. So instead, he bent forward a bit, ruffling his hand through her hair, earning him a bright smile before the girl continued with her work, putting the two halves of the cake on top of each other, decorating it with strawberries._

_Triss appeared in the doorway. “How’s it going here?” Jaskier gave her a thumbs up._

_“ **She should be home soon.** ” Triss nodded absentmindedly, and they both watched as Ciri put the cake on a plate, her movements precise and deliberate. _

_She looked up when she was done, pride in her green eyes. Jaskier smiled and ruffled her hair again, earning him a giggle. “ **Well done!** ” _

_Triss walked forward, taking the plate in her hands. “I’ll bring it to the living room.” She gave the little girl a wink, and Ciri beamed._

_They all looked up as they heard Roach neigh in the distance. Yennefer and Geralt were back. In a flurry of hushed whispers and giggles, they made their way to the living room, closing the door behind them right as the front door opened._

_Moon, who had been laying by the window, looked up, but went back to sleep when she saw no one was going to pet her._

_“Why do I smell cake?” Yennefer’s voice sounded from the hall. Triss hid her mouth behind her hand, trying to keep her laughter in, and Jaskier rolled his eyes at Ciri._

_“ **Why does she have to be so observant?** ” Ciri rolled her eyes back at him, smiling._

_He heard the front door close, and a faint “Hmm,” from Geralt. Yennefer sighed, and suddenly the door to the living room opened, the Mage taking a startled step back as she saw the rest standing there. “Surprise!”_

_The Mage’s mouth opened and closed, eyes wide, before she turned to Geralt. “Did you know about this?” Geralt simply shrugged, small smile dancing around his lips as Yennefer groaned._

_She turned to Jaskier, now. “I told you I don’t celebrate my birthday.” Her purple eyes were confused, slightly betrayed, and Jaskier shrugged._

_“ **You know I never listen, though. You should have expected this.** ” Yennefer sighed, and raised her hands, defeated._

_“Fine, fine. Thank you, I guess.” She smiled as Ciri took her hand, directing her over to the couch._

_“Wait here, we’ve got something else for you!” She looked over at Triss, and the Mage extended her hand, giving the little girl a small, wrapped box, containing the necklace._

_Yennefer smiled as Ciri gave it to her. She sighed and looked around the room. “You really didn’t have to do this.”_

_“We know, now open it.” Triss gestured impatiently and Yennefer sighed again, nimble fingers unwrapping the ribbon around the package, tearing open the paper, lifting the lid off the box._

_Her eyes grew wider ever so slightly, and she let out a soft “oh,” as she looked up. “I love it.” Her face broke out in a smile, and she looked at the necklace again, the sunlight reflecting off the silver shining on her face._

_She picked it out of the box, admiring the amethyst, and Triss stepped forward. “Can I help you with it?” Yennefer nodded, and stood up, turning around and handing the other Mage the necklace._

_Triss clasped it behind her neck, as Yennefer pulled her raven locks aside, and Jaskier couldn’t help but notice the way Triss’ fingers lingered for a second too long, or the way the tips of Yennefer’s ears tinged pink. He smiled knowingly at his best friend, earning him a warning glare in return._

_He looked to his right as he felt Geralt’s shoulder press into his, and he leaned up, pressing a chaste kiss to his Witcher’s lips. Geralt smiled at him, looking up as Ciri exclaimed “gross!” at the sight of them._

҉ ҉ ҉

The memory dissipates as Ciri pulls back, looking at him with tear tracks on her face. “I’m sorry.”

He smiles at her lightly, gently brushing strands of blonde hair out of her face. “ **It’s okay, it’s not your fault. You did your best.** ” She sniffles a bit, and nods, before burying her face in his shirt again.

He looks at Yennefer, who’s still sitting on the couch, her face in her hands, and his eyes wander around the room, in search of Geralt’s familiar form, though he knows they won’t find his love. Disappointment blooms in his chest nonetheless, and he buries his face into Ciri’s soft, golden hair.

The house around them is too empty, too quiet, too cold, as Geralt’s absence weighs on them heavily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also come follow me or yell at me on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3, I post things like teasers and moodboards there if you wanna take a look.


	3. For Sunlight, Sunlight, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> So uhh... corona huh? At least I got more time to write right now, I guess.   
> Secondly, I listened to The Horror And The Wild for the first time and I'm obsessed, no joke.   
> Thirdly! Not so fun, but I see this fic isn't really taking off as well as Lately You're My Wasteland, Baby did, and I'm not sure why? So, if you've got any criticism (doesn't have to be constructive) for me or this fic, I'd love to hear it in the comments or on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3. But if you don't, I'd love to hear from you as well, tbh.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

“ **I want to learn how to fight.** ” Yennefer stares at him, the branch of rosemary she’s been twirling in her hands coming to a sudden stop. She arches an eyebrow, and remains silent.

He sighs. “ **Look, I want to be able to help free Geralt and I can’t do that if I can’t fight.** ” She stares at him some more, her silence working on his nerves. He can’t read her purple eyes, or the emotion that flickers across them.

Eventually, after a few long moments, she nods and stands upright from where she’d been leaning on the table in her study. “Fair enough.” She waves her hand. “Which weapon?”

The question takes him aback, almost as much as her agreeing with him. He shrugs, as he thinks. He hasn’t really thought about that yet, more focused on the results of being able to fight, than on the process of learning how to wield a weapon.

She sighs. “Look, we’ll go to the smith in Arbington tomorrow, I’m sure he knows which weapons would suit your…” another vague movement of her hand, “physique.”

He cocks his head, mock offense on his face. “ **Are you calling me scrawny?** ”

She puts her hands up, smirk on her face. “Your words, not mine.” He narrows his eyes at her. “But yes, that’s definitely what I’m saying.”

He gasps, and pushes her shoulder, making her stumble half a step back. She sneers, pretending to be angry. “How dare you?” He simply laughs at her, and after a moment or two, she smiles back.

“Whatever, Jask.” She rolls her eyes, her hand shooing him away. “Now leave me be, I’m busy.”

He laughs as he walks out of her study, Moon greeting him loudly as he crosses the living room to the door to the garden, taking a moment to scratch her behind her ears. She meows loudly again, and he holds the door open for her, looking at the cat questioningly. She sits down, licking her paw, and he shrugs, going into the garden and closing the door behind him. _Suit yourself, then._

He picks an apple from one of the low-hanging branches of the apple tree that stands at the edge of the garden. It’s summer but every tree surrounding the yard always bears fruit – undoubtedly under a spell of some sorts.

He enters the stable, Roach neighing loudly as he presents her with the apple. It crunches between her teeth as Jaskier takes a brush, and starts brushing her down with broad strokes. She pushes her nose against his shoulder, and throttles in place a little.

“ **Sorry, girl, he’s not back yet.** ” Obviously, she doesn’t understand sign language, but she bristles anyways, looking ahead again. She’s been restless and fidgety ever since Jaskier had come home without Geralt, and she surely wonders where the Witcher is.

He pats her neck for a few minutes when he’s done, and she bumps her nose into him once in a while, as his mind wanders.

He wonders where Geralt is right now, and if he’s still alive. He wonders what his love might be going through, if he is, in fact, still alive. The thought makes something in his chest clench painfully, and he leans his forehead against Roach’s neck.

Tomorrow, he’ll go to Arbington with Ciri and Yenna. He will go to the smith, and he will buy a weapon. He will train. He will fight. He will find out where Geralt is. He will get the love of his life back.

And he will kill anyone who stands in his way.

҉ ҉ ҉

They leave in the morning, Yennefer and Ciri astride Roach. They had a small fight that morning, both the Mage and the Bard insisting the other shouldn’t have to walk. It had resulted in a toss-up of a coin, Yennefer taking Roach with Ciri if it was tails, Jaskier and Ciri if it was heads – as, of course, Ciri shouldn’t have to walk either way.

It had been tails.

Jaskier doesn’t mind, though, and walks happily next to the mare. It reminds him of the old days, when he used to travel around the Continent with Geralt. The clop of the hooves next to him is familiar, just like the green trees around them, their foliage swaying in the soft summer breeze, the rustling of the leaves music to his ears.

He’s lost in the memories of a few short weeks ago, as his left thumb softly turns his engagement ring around his finger, feeling the ridges of the waves carved into the silver.

҉ ҉ ҉

_Jaskier swung their intertwined hands between them as they walked the short distance up the hill to the old maple tree. The grass tickled his bare feet, a soft late spring breeze making the leaves above them rustle. Instead of sitting down on the bench under the tree, Geralt spread a blanket next to it, lowering himself on it as Jaskier put down the wicker basket._

_The tree provided shade from the merciless summer sun as his love pulled a bottle of apple juice from the basket, along with some glasses. Geralt busied himself with pouring the juice, as Jaskier took out the sandwiches he had prepared at the cottage. He handed one to his Witcher, and they leaned against the bench, taking in the view as they ate._

_It had been a while since they’d had a quiet moment for themselves, since Yennefer had returned from Kaer Morhen with Ciri, now about six months ago. Not that Jaskier complained, though; he loved this little family. He had never expected to find one, after he had left his parents and his hometown, so long ago, to travel on the road. He had always thought he would be alone in the end, even as he had travelled with Geralt all those years._

_Now, the future was bright and hopeful, filled with joy and the people he loved. He looked at Geralt, taking in his profile as his Witcher gazed at the view, eventually turning to look at Jaskier. Geralt pulled his eyebrow up at him, a soft smile dancing across his lips. “What?”_

_Jaskier smiled, shaking his half-balled fists in front of his chest lightly: “ **nothing.** ” Geralt shrugged, bumping his shoulder into Jaskier’s._

_“Remember when you fought a griffin here, a few months ago?” Jaskier remembered it clearly, how he had been attacked by the monster, shortly after Geralt had arrived half-dead at the cottage, at the start of winter._

_He frowned at his Witcher. “ **I only poked it with a stick. If I remember correctly, it was you who defeated it. Unarmed.** ” Geralt shrugged, pulling at some nearby blades of grass. _

_“And if I remember correctly, you saved my life by pulling me up from the edge of the cliff.” It was Jaskier’s turn to shrug, a blush creeping up his neck. He looked at the rolling hills ahead of him, bearing crowns of green trees, birdsong drifting on the wind._

_He felt Geralt shift next to him, so that he was on one knee, facing the Bard. Jaskier turned, looking into the golden eyes, his own blue ones widening as he gazed down at his Witcher’s hands, holding a small object._

_“Jaskier…” Geralt started, voice soft and fond, “I know we’ve only been together for half a year but you have made me the happiest man in the world.” Jaskier clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes already threatening to spill tears as he felt his glass heart swell in his chest, sunlight refracting into a million different colours._

_“Will you marry me?”_

_Geralt grunted as Jaskier tackled him to the ground, kissing his Witcher roughly, tears flowing down his cheeks. He pulled away, smiling down brightly at Geralt, nodding feverously, mouthing “_ yes,” _over and over again._

҉ ҉ ҉

He twirls his engagement ringer around his finger, lost in thought, as he walks down the path next to Roach. He remembers going to Arbington a few days after Geralt proposed, to have the jeweler make a ring for his fiancé – though his Witcher had insisted he didn’t need it, as long as Jaskier would marry him. Still, the golden eyes had shone brightly when the Bard had given him the ring. It was silver, with the dark silhouette of a pine forest carved into it.

Jaskier hoped that they hadn’t taken the ring away from his love, wherever he was.

They arrive at Arbington after two hours. It’s a relatively large town at the crossroads of two trading routes, and the cobblestone streets are bustling with visitors and merchants alike, voices of people trying to sell things lifting up over the noise of chatter and the clopping of hooves on the stones. Jaskier can barely look over the heads, and has laid one hand on Roach’s flank, to make sure he doesn’t get lost in the masses of people, as Yennefer and Ciri navigate their way to a wooden sign hanging from the smith’s shop, bearing the image of a hammer and an anvil.

The route they take through the streets of the town is familiar, and Jaskier feels a sharp tug in his chest as he realizes why, when he walks past the jeweler where he had gotten Geralt’s ring. He walks the same roads now, takes the same turns, yet under darker and more dire circumstances.

He tears his eyes away from the familiar shop, and looks ahead.

Finally, they arrive at the smith, and Jaskier helps Ciri off Roach as Yennefer ties the mare to a lamppost next to the storefront. A bell rings when they go inside, the noise from the streets suddenly muting when his best friend closes the door behind them. It’s warm inside, and Jaskier can feel sweat already gathering on his brow.

The shop is quite large for a smith, and a doorway in the back wall leads to the workplace, where Jaskier can see several fires burning, causing the heat in the shop. He can hear the sounds of hammers on metal, and the distant sizzle of something warm being dipped in water.

A broad man emerges from the back of the shop, leather apron barely able to span his impressive muscles and the dirty shirt - that might’ve once been white - he’s wearing. Sweat gleams on his skin, as he wipes his hands on a filthy rag, smearing more dark spots on the already grey fabric. He is bald, but has an impressive ginger beard, covering most of his face, his beady eyes taking in the three of them.

He nods in greeting. “How may I help ye?” His deep voice bounces off the walls of the shop, drowning out both the noises from the street – still distantly heard from behind the door – and the sounds from the workplace alike.

Jaskier looks around, at the swords on the walls, the displays full of daggers, the quivers full of arrows in one of the corners, and suddenly feels insecure. He’s rarely ever held a weapon in his life, let alone wielded one, so how is he supposed to learn how to fight?

His thoughts are stopped from spiraling into despair, as he hears Yennefer’s voice next to him, grounding him back in reality. “We need some weapons. For all three of us.”

The smith nods, gesturing a broad arm around the shop. “Take yer pick, but feel free to ask me for advice if ye’re not sure.”

They all split up, Yennefer walking over to one of the walls bearing swords, Ciri looking at one of the displays carrying daggers, and Jaskier walking over to another display.

He looks inside, and sees an array of all sorts of weapons – most of them he’s never seen before. There are slings, dagger-like weapons with curved blades, and dangerous-looking stars, clearly meant for throwing. His eye, however, is caught by a metal circle, the outer edge sharp, a wooden handle curving in the middle. Runes are carved into the metal, and he cocks his head, wondering what they’re for.

He jumps slightly as he suddenly hears the deep voice of the smith next to him. “I think that’ll suit ye just nicely, boy.” Jaskier looks up at him questioningly, as the man takes a key from the overflowing ring on his belt, opening the glass top of the case, and taking the weapon out, pushing it into the Bard’s hands.

“Ye see, ye’re not exactly…” the smith eyes him from head to toe, “the strongest-looking fella. This thing is light, easy to carry.” He shrugs. “Not easy to throw, though, so ye’ll need to practice for a while, but once ye _can_ wield it,” Something glints in the black, beady eyes, “ye’ll be unstoppable.”

Jaskier looks down, admiring the way the sunlight, coming from the dusty windows, reflects on the sharp edge of the blade. He puts it down carefully, and the smith looks confused. “Ye don’t like it?”

“ **What are the runes for?** ” He has little hope that the smith understands what he wants to say, and his suspicions are confirmed when he sees a blush creeping up the man’s neck, as he rubs the back of his sweaty neck.

“Sorry, boy, I don’t understand.” Jaskier smiles sadly.

They both look up, as they hear Yennefer’s clear voice coming from across the shop. “He asked what the runes are for.” She’s bent over a case full of daggers, and doesn’t bother looking up as the smith mutters his thanks.

The man looks back at Jaskier. “The runes, they’re legit, alright. Had a real Mage put them in the metal. They make sure the weapon returns to yer hands.” The smith nods. “Doesn’t sound like much, but it’s powerful magic, ‘s what it is.”

Jaskier nods, and gazes at Yennefer, who still doesn’t look up as she replies in his stead. “He’ll take it.”

҉ ҉ ҉

That evening, they’re sitting in the living room. Jaskier unconsciously swirls his tea around in the mug he’s holding, as he reads up on the techniques used to wield the Chakram – as the weapon he’s bought is called. The smith had been right, he needed to practice a lot to master the weapon, but Jaskier is willing to put in the effort needed if it means being able to free his love from whoever had abducted him.

Ciri is leaning on his shoulder, asleep, her golden curls framing her peaceful face. Yennefer sits on one of the other couches, bent over a potion book, though Jaskier’s not sure what for. Moon is curled up in her lap.

The quietude of the cottage is interrupted as a sharp knock resounds on the front door. Moon meows loudly when Yennefer stands up, and Ciri shifts against Jaskier’s side, her green eyes open and alert when he looks over to her.

Softly, quietly, he stands up, bare feet padding across the stone floor to the front door. He hears a small shout of protest behind him and he looks over his shoulder, seeing Yennefer blocking Ciri from looking into the hall. The Mage’s hands are suddenly alight with fire, and Jaskier can smell the ozone in the air as he looks back to the front door.

Slowly, cautiously, he opens it, relaxing when he sees no one there. He feels a faint crackling in the clear summer night, and realizes someone else must’ve used magic outside their door, just now. He looks down, and sees an envelope on the ground.

He looks back at Yennefer, who shrugs and extinguishes her fire, ignoring Ciri’s inquiries of what’s going on. Jaskier bends, picking up the envelope, and opening it.

He pulls out a note, folding it open and reading it.

“ _The Witcher will be returned alive, if Cirilla of Cintra and Yennefer of Vengerberg surrender themselves to Nilfgaard. If not, Geralt of Rivia will die a slow, painful death. That is a promise.”_

He has to read it again, the words only getting through to his mind the second time, and his hand starts shaking uncontrollably. _Nilfgaard._

He furrows his brow in confusion, the note crumpling in his trembling fist. _That’s it?_ He knows Nilfgaard, has seen the chaos they created across the Continent, has looked at the barren, burnt fields of Cintra, has walked between mourning and defeated faces of farmers harvesting their crops too soon in the face of war, fleeing north.

Surely they wouldn’t just leave a note and hope for the best?

He looks at the envelope, noticing a dark shadow against the yellowed paper. He looks inside, heart skipping a painful beat, as he reaches into the envelope, taking out a lock of hair, one end freckled with blood, the redness a stark contrast with the white.


	4. But Whose Heart Would Not Take Flight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> Time for chapter 4 y'all! Geralt is not dead yet! Woohoo!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Geralt wakes up with a start, head exploding with pain as he opens his eyes. It’s dim in the room, yet he has to get used to the morning light shining in through the dirty window, high in the wall. The stone floor is cold and damp beneath his painful knees, the coldness of the cell making goosebumps break out over his skin.

He figures he’s in a dungeon of sorts and lifts his head up, causing a fresh wave of pain to wash over his head, spreading to his raised shoulders. His arms hurt, he realizes, and his fingers feel numb, as if they’ve been deprived of blood for a while now.

He looks to his right, struggling a bit against the chains holding his arms up. They’re pulled taut, though, and don’t budge an inch against his strength. He squints his eyes a bit, seeing the faint glint of a pulley in the stone wall, keeping the chains in place.

He shifts a little, trying to alleviate the pressure from his knees, and feels cool metal on his ankles, the sound of more chains dragging across the stone floor behind him. There’s no one else in the cell, but he can hear two sets of heartbeats outside the door, presumably guards.

He tries to think back, tries to remember what happened and how he got here, but his mind is fuzzy and disorganized. He remembers waking up in the middle of the night, the hairs at the back of his neck standing up. He remembers reaching for his sword quietly, trying not to wake Jaskier. He remembers seeing several dark figures in the bedroom, only illuminated by a bit of moonlight shining through the curtains.

After that, he remembers nothing, only the feeling of being unable to move, the panic that came with the powerlessness, and a sharp pain in the back of his head as someone knocked him out.

He looks up as the door opens. “Ah, you’re finally awake, Witcher.” The man’s voice is relatively high, fitting the lanky physique surprisingly well. He looks down at Geralt with a cocky look in his muddy brown eyes, his pale hands clasped behind his back. Wispy hair the same colour as his eyes falls flat on his forehead as he takes a few steps towards Geralt.

He half expects a forked tongue to shoot out between the pale, thin lips, though he can smell that the man is decidedly that – just a man.

“Nothing to say, Witcher?” His features are still cocky as he stops in front of Geralt, his words slippery like an eel as they fall out of his mouth. Geralt continues glaring at the man, refusing to waste any words on this bastard.

The man – the Eel, simply shrugs, and crouches down to Geralt’s eye-level, resting his elbows on his bent knees. “You know, Witcher, I admire you.” A thin finger points to Geralt and he suppresses the urge to bite it off. “You killed two of my finest men, good soldiers. Of course, I don’t approve of it,” the Eel grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, “but I do admire it.”

Geralt continues glaring at the man, though a little part in the back of his mind recalls the glint of his sword in the dark room, cutting through two people’s necks, before being unable to move all of a sudden.

The Eel stands up, pouting at the lack of reply. “Nothing to say, Witcher? How rude.” He shrugs, a mischievous glint making its way into the muddy eyes. “Though, I guess I do deserve it. After all, I did abduct you and kill the whore in your bed.”

Geralt’s heart freezes in his chest, eyes widening ever so slightly, and the Eel gives a sly smile at the reaction.

“Oh, you didn’t know that, Witcher?” He leans against the stone wall, waving his hand dismissively. “He woke up. Obviously we couldn’t leave any witnesses, wouldn’t be good for business, would it?” He snorts and shrugs. “Didn’t make a sound as we cut his throat.”

Anger flares up in Geralt’s chest, setting his veins on fire, and he lunges forwards, shoulders screaming in agony as the chains around his wrist hold him back, the only thing between the Witcher’s teeth and the Eel’s throat. He growls in frustration, and the bastard simply laughs in his face, making the rage in Geralt’s chest swirl around, trying to fight its way out.

“Oh, please, dear Witcher. Don’t tell me you _cared_ for the boy?” He chuckles again, as Geralt sneers at him. “I thought Witchers didn’t have feelings.” The muddy brown eyes narrow at him.

Eventually, the Eel shrugs and pushes himself away from the wall. “Well, too late now, he’s dead.” He walks to the wooden cell door, knocking on it. He mutters a few last words half under his breath as a guard opens the door, but Geralt knows they’re directed at him.

“Don’t know why you would care for some ordinary whore, anyways. Why a pathetic, weak, little boy would gain a Witcher’s affection is beyond me.”

Geralt growls again, as one of the guards steps inside the cell, the door closing behind the Eel, who throws one last cocky smile over his shoulder.

The guard looks at him, his sea-green eyes nervous as he fidgets with the edge of his chest plate, his fingers tightening around the spear he’s carrying. He’s wearing Nilfgaardian armour, Geralt notices, a sun carved into the black metal. Hair darker than the armour sticks out from under the helmet in unruly tufts, and the guard quickly looks away as the Witcher notices him staring.

Geralt notes, in the back of his head, how young the guard looks, barely more than a boy.

He sighs and lets his head hang, white strands of hair falling in front of his face. His shoulders and knees still hurt, but it’s drowned out by the realization of what the Eel had told him. Jaskier is dead.

He starts trembling, eyes squeezing shut as grief hits him like a sack of bricks. He should’ve known, should’ve seen this coming. Jaskier’s light had been snuffed out by Nilfgaard, because of _him._ He always wreaks havoc wherever he goes, always hurts the people he loves most, somehow. How should this time have been any different?

The image of Jaskier laying in the beach-side cottage with his throat cut burns on the inside of his eyelids. He lets the silent tears flow down his face, onto the damp, cold stone floor beneath him, not caring whether the guard could see or not.

He hopes Yennefer and Ciri found Jaskier. He hopes they gave him a proper funeral. He hopes they buried him at the foot of the old maple tree, where Geralt proposed to him. He hopes Jaskier found peace, at last.

His thumb brushes over the engagement ring on his left hand, feeling the silhouettes of the pine trees carved into the surface, and a fresh wave of grief washes over him. He pays no mind to the stranger next to the door, as he lets soft sobs wrack his body. He feels terribly alone, for the first time in six months, as he sits there on his knees, in the cold, damp cell.

҉ ҉ ҉

_He sneaked between the trees, footsteps light and soundless in the snow. He peered around an oak, as he heard someone blundering through the woods a few yards away, twigs snapping under their feet. Geralt grinned and ducked quietly, gathering snow in his hands, the cold making his fingers tingle slightly, pressing it into a big ball._

_He peered around the tree again, raising his arm to hurl the snowball at an unsuspecting Jaskier, when suddenly something hit him in the back of his head. He turned around, yellow eyes confused and mildly irritated, and he spotted a giggling Ciri. She ran away, hiding behind a tree. He stalked in her direction, snowball still in his hands, cold water dripping from his fingers as it slowly melted._

_“I really expected better than to be betrayed by my own Child Surprise.” He came to a sudden halt, when another snowball hit his cheek, and he swiveled around, glaring at Jaskier. His love beamed at him for a second, proud of his work as he admired the snow stuck in Geralt’s white hair, before he, too, ran for cover behind a tree, a snowball whizzing past his ear._

_“A conspiracy!” Geralt could barely keep the grin off his face as he gathered more snow in his hands, listening intently for Ciri’s soft giggling, and the quick rapping of Jaskier’s heart._

_He straightened again, looking behind him as soft footsteps approached. Yennefer looked surprised, stilling with a snowball of her own in her gloved hands, as he made eye contact with her. He beckoned her closer, and she walked over to him._

_“They’ve teamed up, so I suggest we do the same. I’ll distract them; you hit them from behind. Sound good?” Yennefer’s purple eyes glinted mischievously, and she nodded._

_At that, he strode forward, trying to make as much noise as humanly possible while Yennefer sneaked behind him, her footsteps light as a cat and silent to anyone who didn’t posses a supernatural sense of hearing._

_As expected, Jaskier and Ciri ran away as he approached, both giggling as they ducked between the trees._

_Their footsteps suddenly stopped, and two dull_ thuds _could be heard, as Yennefer hit them with several square feet of the blanket of snow, lifted up using her magic. Geralt laughed, as Jaskier pushed himself up, his brown hair coated in a layer of white, an indignant look on his face. Next to him, Ciri bounced up, her bright, green eyes sparkling in joy._

_“Did you see that, dad? We totally tricked you, didn’t we? You looked so surprised, so don’t tell me we didn’t trick you! But you also tricked us but that’s not fair cause Yennefer has better magic and I’m just a_ child _and Jaskier’s_ mute _and you’re a Witcher! So it’s super unfair, but-,“ she continued chattering, directing her stream of words to Yennefer half-way through, when the Mage came trudging from behind the trees._

_Yennefer nodded patiently as Ciri kept rambling, fondness in her purple eyes at the excitement of the young girl._

_He felt Jaskier standing next to him, and looked to his right, sparkling blue eyes meeting his own golden ones. “ **She called you ‘dad’.** ” Jaskier smiled at him, and Geralt nodded, fondness and happiness blooming in his chest._

_“She called me ‘dad’,” he whispered, more to himself than to his love, and Jaskier bumped his shoulder into his._

_“ **Don’t let it get to your head. It’s big enough already.** ” A toothy grin made the small crow’s feet on the sides of the blue yes crinkle. Geralt scoffed, unable to keep a smile off his face._

_“You’re one to talk.” Jaskier laughed, breath forming white clouds in the winter air. Geralt just couldn’t help himself, and he bent down, capturing his love’s lips in his own. They had only been together for a month, but Geralt knew he could never tire of kissing Jaskier._

҉ ҉ ҉

His eyes flutter open again, late afternoon sunlight spilling onto the stone floor in front of him, as he blinks blearily. Cold had seeped into his bones, during the short few hours he managed to sleep, and his shoulders scream in pain as he shifts. He shuffles his knees slightly and feels painful indents of the dirt on the floor and the fabric of his pants in his skin.

He looks up and meets eyes with the guard at the door, the sea-green gaze of the boy widening in shock a bit, before anxiously looking ahead again. Geralt scoffs, and lets his head hang down, as the memories from that morning strike him like a sack of bricks. _Jaskier._

He blinks furiously as grief washes over him, determined to not lose himself in this disgusting prison cell. He quietly vows to himself to escape and let himself mourn at the grave of the love of his life, later. Not now.

Bit by painful bit, he pieces himself together. Eventually, he looks up again, startling the young guard as he is caught staring at the Witcher again. The boy looks ahead once more, sea-green eyes trained on the stone wall behind Geralt. He can smell the guard’s fear.

He cocks his head slightly. “What’s your name, boy?” The guard winces slightly as Geralt’s voice bounces off the walls of the cell. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, as if to remind himself he’s not allowed to talk to the prisoner. His knuckles tighten around the shaft of the spear he’s still holding.

A knock on the wooden cell door startles them both, though Geralt doesn’t show it. Another guard steps in, muttering something into the ear of the teen that’s been guarding the Witcher. Geralt strains his ears, but can’t distinguish any words. He does smell the disdain on the other guard, and he scoffs. Two pairs of eyes flicker to him for half a second, before the other guard finishes speaking, closing the door behind him once again.

The sea-green-eyed guard looks at him hesitantly, before slowly laying his spear on the ground, shuffling along the wall to Geralt’s right, yellow eyes following him. The teen turns a wheel in the wall. Geralt sighs, closing his eyes, as the chains that hold his right arm up are relaxed, and he’s able to lower his arm. Pain shoots through his shoulder, and pinpricks spreads across his lower arm as blood flows back into it.

The guard moves to Geralt’s left, shuffling along the wall behind him, fear coming off him in waves. He does the same to the chains holding the Witcher’s left arm up, and quickly moves back to the door, picking his spear up and staring at the back wall.

Geralt rolls his painful shoulders and ignores the tiny wince the boy gives as he moves to sit back, the skin on his knees cold and protesting against the sudden change of pressure as they are finally moved off the floor, no longer carrying almost his entire weight.

Movement catches his eye, and he sees the guard knock on the door, once, twice. It’s opened, and someone shoves a tray into the teen’s hands, before the door closes again.

Sea-green eyes meet his hesitantly, before the guard bows down, setting the platter on the ground before him, pushing it towards Geralt with one foot. Geralt nods at him, thanking him silently, and sea-green eyes flicker back to anything but the Witcher, as if afraid to be punished if he looks at the prisoner too long.

Geralt narrows his eyes slightly, as he realizes most of the fear has subsided in the teen’s scent, replaced by something he hasn’t smelled in a long time – not since he first met Jaskier. _Curiosity._

He sighs, cocking his head at the teen, trying to appear non-threatening. “I’m Geralt of Rivia.” Sea-green eyes meet his before quickly looking away. “Thought you might want to know who you’re guarding.”

A few slow heartbeats pass, and nothing happens, except a slight stiffening of the knuckles around the spear, and a spike in the smell of curiosity coming off the boy. Geralt shrugs, sure the guard won’t answer, and looks down at the tray. A wooden bowl of cold broth, a few slices of stale, old bread, and a mug of water.

Better than nothing – he figures, and takes the bowl in his hands, raising it to his lips. He stills, as a quiet voice echoes around the cold, damp cell. “My name is Rhirthisech.”

҉ ҉ ҉

He is woken up by a kick to the stomach, that night, and he grunts as he sits up from where he’d been sleeping on the cold, stone floor. The Eel is back, and he sneers down at Geralt, a dangerous glint in the muddy, brown eyes. The Witcher glances to the door, but sees a different guard there. He suppresses the disappointment that rises in his chest at the absence of the familiar, almost kind face.

After the sea-greened teen had told him his name – Rhirthisech – he had remained quiet, but Geralt had noticed the absence of fear, replaced by more curiosity and the sweet, flowery scent of contentment. He had thought it strange, as this was a soldier of Nilfgaard, after all - no matter how young he appeared to be – but he had also felt a slight glint of hope at finding an ally in the sea of enemies he had expected himself to be in.

Still, of course, the boy can’t guard him all the time, so he’s been replaced with another, more angry-smelling guard, at least for the night.

His attention is drawn once again by the Eel, as he bends down to Geralt’s eye-level. “What’s the matter, Witcher? Cat got your tongue?” He snickers at his own stupid joke, as he seizes Geralt by the chin; thin, cold fingers pressing into his skin painfully.

Geralt’s eye is caught by the glint of a knife as the Eel takes it from his belt, pressing the tip against Geralt’s tightly shut lips. He just continues to stare into the bastard’s muddy eyes, determined to not show him any emotion. The Eel tuts.

“Don’t worry, Witcher, I won’t cut out your tongue.” He winks, as he stands up, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Yet.”

He snaps his thin, pale fingers, and the door opens, another guard wheeling in a table. Geralt can’t see what’s on it, but the pleased look in the Eel’s eyes doesn’t bode well. “Shall I tell you a secret, Witcher?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, and the Eel cocks his head. “Very rude of you to not reply, but sure.” He puts the knife on the table. “It’s not you who we’re after. You see, you’re not that much of a threat.”

The Eel looks at him expectantly, but Geralt just stares. The man shrugs, arranging some things on the table as he speaks, the sound of metal on woods grating in Geralt’s ears.

“It’s your friend we want – or rather, we want _dead._ The Mage, Yennefer of Vengerberg I think her name was?” Ice runs through Geralt’s veins, but he keeps his face level. “And of course we want the lion cub, Cirilla. Yes,” he picks up a different, thinner knife from the table, inspecting it, “she’d be a most interesting acquisition.”

This time Geralt can’t keep a growl from escaping his lips, as the Eel mentions Ciri’s name. The man simply looks at him knowingly, before continuing: “Anyways, your” he waves his hand vaguely, the knife glinting slightly in the dimness of the cell “ _friend_ destroyed a good part of our military at the battle of Sodden, so you can see how we can’t just keep a threat like that alive.”

The Eel stands in front of Geralt again, lowering to the Witcher’s eye-level, arms on his bent knees, one hand toying with the knife slightly. “However, we couldn’t get to her, as she’s protected her house in the mountains of Lyria with a great deal of very, very powerful spells.” He knows where they live – Geralt notes in the back of his head.

The Eel grins, and stands up, moving to Geralt’s right. He starts pulling the chains taut again, lifting Geralt’s right arm into the air, his shoulder groaning slightly. “So, we took our chance when you and your” another non-descript wave of his hand “ _toy_ went to the beachside, away from her spells.” Geralt feels anger boil in his veins as the Eel disrespects Jaskier so flippantly, waving the love of his life away with rolled eyes and disdainful words.

“Anyways, so now we have you, and you’re here! Great!” He moves to the Witcher’s left, pulling the chains there taut as well, leaving Geralt on his knees once again, both arms lifted in the air. The Eel looks at him expectantly, and Geralt sighs slightly.

“Why are you telling me this?” His voice is deep and gravelly from disuse, but the Eel widens his eyes theatrically anyways, laying a dramatic hand on his chest.

“So the Witcher does speak! How _lovely._ ” He walks to the table, narrowing his eyes, as he puts down the knife, muttering to himself under his breath: “ _No, this won’t do. Aha, that one._ ”

He turns back to Geralt, whip in one hand, smaller knife in the other, and he starts circling around him. Geralt feels the cool metal of a knife against his spine, and he suppresses a shiver, as his shirt is cut open, his back revealed to the cold air. “You see, Witcher, I just want you and I to become very good friends.”

Geralt growls, and he hears the Eel snicker behind him, slightly deranged. “And that can only happen, if you understand why I’ve taken you away, and why I’m doing this to you.”

Geralt snorts. “And why is that?”

A hand grabs his hair forcefully, pulling his head back, the slithering voice in his ear. “To show _her_ that we mean business. And of course to have fun.”

The hand lets go of Geralt’s hair, and he can barely process the words, prepare himself, before he hears the sharp snap of the whip behind him, pain exploding in his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also you can come yell at me or follow me or talk to me or stalk me (doesn't really matter) on tumblr @smol-squish -ao3! I also post edits there!


	5. Betray The Moon As Acolyte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> There's not much to say about this chapter, tbh. Idk. You'll see.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He stands still for a moment, the blood-speckled lock of white hair still in his hand. He hears footsteps, and Yennefer’s presence as she comes to stand behind him. She gasps slightly, and Jaskier finally moves, looking over his shoulder.

Ciri is still standing in the doorway, big, green eyes filled with unasked questions. Yennefer is right behind him, purple eyes wide, mouth slightly agape in shock. She blinks, once, twice, before regaining her composure. “Who sent it?”

He hands her the crumpled note, and she unfolds it carefully, smoothing it down, before reading it. Her eyes widen again, and she pales. “Nilfgaard?”

“What?” They both look over at Ciri, an incredulous look on her face. “Nilfgaard has Geralt?” Yennefer nods, crumpling the note in her hand once again.

She turns to Jaskier, and they both come to a silent agreement to never, _ever_ let Ciri know that the abductors had demanded her surrender in trade for Geralt’s life. They both know she would give herself up in a second, and they could not let that happen.

The note burns to ashes in Yennefer’s balled fist.

He looks at Ciri again, and sees the fear in her eyes. _Of course she’s scared._ He walks over to her, and she lets him pull her into a tight hug, returning it after a moment or two. He knows what she went through before Geralt found her, Nilfgaard burning her home to the ground and hunting her across the Continent. He only knows the Ciri before the fall of Cintra, and the version of her after she had spent some time in the safety of Kaer Morhen, but he can sometimes see the scars Nilfgaard left behind, when she thinks no one is looking.

Yennefer sinks on her knees next to them, taking both of them in her arms as well. A few months ago, he had managed to pull the story of the battle of Sodden Hill from her, and what Nilfgaard had done to her. The stories of her murdered and injured sisters, the stab wound she had gotten – a scar that would never fade – and the Chaos she had unleashed on the unsuspecting army.

Both of them have been hurt by Nilfgaard and the war with the northern kingdoms.

He, himself, has only seen the war in the faces of frightened peasants, taking in their crops from the fields too soon, fleeing to the north. In the injured soldiers that were wheeled into major villages, screaming as they bled. In the hushed whispers of _‘no survivors, no mercy,’_ among townspeople. In the fear in everyone’s eyes, no matter how far removed from the front line.

He, personally, has not been hurt by Nilfgaard, but he has seen what they have done to others.

He pulls away from the other two, and they look up. “ **We have to get him back.** ”

Ciri nods, and he can see determination in her eyes, always ready to fight for what she loves – it reminds him of Yennefer. His best friend nods as well. “Though, we’re going to need to train, if we’re planning on fighting Nilfgaardian soldiers.”

“ **And we’re going to need some help.** ” He can’t help but feel a spark igniting in his chest as he sees the murderous, sly glint in Yennefer’s eyes.

“Leave that to me.”

҉ ҉ ҉

His Chakram whooshes through the air, embedding itself in a tree, instead of returning to his hand -as he had intended - and he lowers his arm, sighing in disappointment. He’s been training with the weapon for a week, now, and although he’s made a lot of progress, he’s still far from able to actually fight anyone.

He walks over to the tree, biting his lip as he has trouble wedging the weapon from the bark. He looks up as something hits a nearby tree, and he gives Ciri a thumbs up. She beams at him, and he leans against the bark, his chakram still embedded in it, as she loads another metal ball into her sling, rotating the piece of leather until he hears a faint whooshing. She flings her arms forward, the metal ball barely visible as it hits her target with a loud _thwack_.

He grins, giving her a little applause, and she curtsies in his direction. He turns around as Ciri goes to collect the metal balls from the foot of the tree, and he tries to pull his chakram from the tree once again, finally succeeding with a final, sharp tug.

He startles a bit, as he turns around and sees the girl right behind him. She giggles as he puts a hand over his chest dramatically. “ **You’re way too quiet for your own good.** ”

“Thanks! I learned it in Kaer Morhen!” He rolls his eyes at her, bopping her nose. _Of course she did._ She bats his hand away and laughs.

He smiles softly, unconsciously, as he watches her. For a few moments she seems carefree – as any child her age should be – until the familiar worry seeps back into her green eyes, as she looks into the distance. He knows she’s thinking about Geralt, as his Witcher is constantly on his mind, too.

He bumps into her shoulder. “ **You want to help me fetch some drinks for everyone?** ” The strange look disappears from her eyes and she nods excitedly.

Together, they walk through the forest, green grass under their feet, leaves slightly rustling in the breeze, providing shade from the merciless summer sun. His hand comes up to roll the small vial hanging from his neck in between two fingers, the lock of silver hair captured inside. In the distance, he hears the sounds of the others training, the smell of ozone filling the air as some of the Mages use magic to spar against one another, others training with weapons.

Yennefer had contacted Aretuza about a week ago, asking them for help to free Geralt from Nilfgaard’s grasp. Tissaia had arrived the next day, six other Mages in tow. Most of them were newly ascended, but the three of them would take what they could get, really.

Finally, they arrive at the cottage, and Ciri helps him pour lemonade into a dozen or so cups, downing her own before refilling it. She blushes slightly as she realizes he saw it, but he merely winks at her, and takes one of the trays in his hands, the girl taking the other.

She practically skips back outside, and Jaskier walks a few yards behind her, careful not to spill anything.

The younger Mages gather around the girl as soon as they see her, and excited chatter fills the air as everyone takes a break. He looks to his right, and sees Tissaia as she takes a cup from his tray, sipping it while they watch the girls coo over Ciri, who seems a little too pleased with the attention.

Not that he blames her, of course. She is the princess of Cintra, after all, and has been in the spotlight her entire life. He can’t begin to imagine how lonely and abandoned she must have felt after the fall of her kingdom, left all alone and unguarded in the wilderness, the only thing to guide her Geralt’s name and her own powers.

Something painful tugs at his chest at the thought of his Witcher, and not for the first time that day, or even that hour, his mind wanders as he imagines all the things his love could be going through right now. A familiar itching rears up in his bones, telling him to either train as hard as possible, or to storm Nilfgaard right now, to get his love back no matter the cost.

He suppresses it, and looks to his right as he feels Tissaia staring at him. They meet eyes, and she pulls an eyebrow up, clearly having just read his thoughts. He looks ahead again, blush creeping up his neck.

She puts her empty glass back on the platter, giving him a reassuring pat before she walks back to the younger Mages, clapping her hands a few times. “Alright, ladies! The break is over, we have work to do!”

Some of the girls sigh in disappointment, and Ciri waves them goodbye, tray of empty glasses balancing precociously in one hand, as Tissaia starts giving the girls orders.

Jaskier looks down at his own tray, frowning as he sees two glasses that are still full. He gazes around, soft grunts in the distance catching his attention, and he realizes Yennefer and Triss are missing from the group of Mages that are picking their weapons up again, next to him.

Ciri seems to realize this, too, and shrugs. “I saw them sparring on that hill.” She gestures wildly with her arm in the general direction, the tray tipping over slightly in one hand, though not falling just yet. She smiles at him. “I’ll go put this back.”

He nods, pressing a small kiss to the top of her head, before he makes his way to the hill she had pointed to, careful not to trip and fall.

The closer he gets to the two Mages, the louder the sounds of fighting become, the smell of ozone in the air, the distinct _clink_ of metal meeting metal.

Triss had shown up with the other, younger Mages of Aretuza, answering Yennefer’s call for help. She was the only one who wasn’t newly ascended – other than Tissaia, of course – and she and Yenna had already seemed to be very good friends. He recalls the story of the Battle of Sodden Hill, how Triss had stood her ground and had helped defeat Nilfgaard, and he feels grateful that someone so powerful is on their side.

Well, at least, on _Yennefer’s_ side.

He can’t help but notice the stolen glances between the two Mages, the lingering touches, the slight blushes, the unspoken words. It reminds Jaskier of Geralt and himself, before… well, everything.

He now watches as Triss and Yennefer stand opposite each other, their hair in a fray, clothes torn in places. One, two heartbeats pass and Yennefer lunges, magic sparking from her hands. Triss, however, blocks it easily, and knocks his best friend on her back with a counter-spell.

Yennefer sighs, letting her head fall on the dirt with a groan. “Where’d you learn that spell?”

Triss chuckles and walks over, extending her hand. “Found it in some old book, in the depths of the library in Aretuza. You really should read more, Yen.”

Yennefer scoffs and rolls her eyes, but takes Triss’ hand anyways, letting herself be helped to her feet. For a moment they stand there, looking into each other’s eyes, hands still intertwined between them.

Something Jaskier can’t identify flickers across Yenna’s face, before it disappears as he shifts his foot and snaps a twig in half, the sound startling the two Mages. They let go of each other, both taking a step back.

Triss smiles brightly at him. “Jaskier! You scared me there for a second.” She chuckles, and he looks at Yennefer. His best friend shields her face with a curtain of black hair, pretending she’s busy wiping dirt off her already-stained dress, but he can see the blush creeping up her neck.

Triss walks over to him, taking the two still-full glasses from his tray. “Thank you!” She turns around, and hands one to Yennefer, who starts blushing even harder. Jaskier pulls his eyebrow up at her, and she shoots him a death-glare.

She looks even angrier as he winks at her, and he can see it’s taking all her willpower and strength not to flip him off in front of Triss.

He shrugs, and turns around, walking away. “We’ll bring the glasses back later!” Triss half-shouts behind him, and he gives her a thumbs-up over his shoulder, heading back to the cottage to talk to Ciri about what he just witnessed.

҉ ҉ ҉

He knocks on Yennefer’s door that evening, opening it when she tells him to fuck off. He grins at her, and she rolls her eyes at him from where she’s sitting on her bed, continuing to polish the nails of her left hand. He sits opposite her, and she stills the brush in her hand for a few seconds as the bed dips.

“Please don’t mention it.” She looks up at him, warning in her eyes. He does not heed it.

“ **Mention what?** ” She glares at him, before waving her hand slightly, to let the paint dry. “ **Why are you polishing your nails?** ”

She blows on her fingers. “Because.” She rolls her eyes again as he pulls up an eyebrow suggestively. “No, not because of Triss, shut up. I just needed a distraction.”

He stretches his palm out, and she puts the bottle of dark red paint in it, offering him her dominant hand. She sighs, as he begins to paint her nails with precise, even strokes.

It’s quiet in the room for a few minutes, before she speaks again: “Look, between me and Triss…”

He looks up, expectantly. “It’s just a silly crush, nothing more.” She sighs again. “And now is not the time for silly crushes.”

He puts the brush back into the bottle, screwing the cap closed. “ **Why not?** ”

She pushes at his shoulder slightly. “You know why, Jask. Because…” she looks out the window, and he follows her gaze, watching the small lights in the distance around the tents the Mages had set up in the woods, “because of Geralt.”

He scoffs, and she looks back at him. “ **Oh, please.** **You’re just making excuses.** ”

She frowns, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “No, I’m not, this is a serious situation,” she waves her hand impatiently, “I can’t let myself get distracted.”

He pulls up his eyebrows at her. “ **And you’re not distracted by her now?** ”

“No, I’m not!” He simply looks at her, and eventually she throws her hands up. “Gods, you’re insufferable, sometimes.”

He bops her nose, and she slaps his hand away, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “ **That’s why you love me.** ”

“Shut up, you idiot.” He laughs at her indignant expression.

Suddenly, he grows serious. “ **Yenna, you can’t let this entire** ” a non-descript wave of his hand “ **situation hold you back. The last thing Geralt would want is him keeping you from finding love.** ”

She sighs. “How do I even know it’s love, huh?”

He smiles at her knowingly, and she rolls her eyes again. “ **I’ve seen the way you two look at each other.** ”

“Whatever, Jask.” She pushes him again, though without real force, her eyes thoughtful. It’s quiet between them for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts, when a knock on the door downstairs startles them both.

Yennefer gasps. “I think they’re here.” Jaskier looks at her, confusion written all over his face.

He puts his thumb on his chin, his index finger in front of his lips, pulling it down into a hook: “ **who?** ”

She gets up, without paying much attention to him, pulling on a dressing gown over her nightwear. He follows her, as she rushes down the stairs.

He looks up, and sees Ciri in her doorway, a questioning look in her eyes. He shrugs at her, equally confused as to what’s going on.

Another strong knock shakes the front door, and his bare feet meet the cold, stone floor of the hall, as Yennefer turns the doorknob, opening the front door.

Jaskier cocks his head, more questions arisen than answered at the sight of three tall, muscular men in the doorway. The one in the front, seemingly older, extends his hand to Yennefer, who shakes it.

“Vesemir, nice to finally meet you, Yennefer of Vengerberg.” He points to the two men standing behind him with his thumb. “Eskel and Lambert.” The other two nod at Yennefer, as the older one – Vesemir – continues: “We came as soon as we could.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also come yell at me or follow me or talk to me or stalk me or WHATEVER on tumblr, @smol-squish-ao3. I also post edits and memes there lmao.
> 
> Also! Disclaimer for this chapter and the ones to come: I don't play the games and I don't read the books. I tried to do research on the other Witchers but their Wikis didn't tell me much about their personalities so I had to fabricate those myself. So there's a very big chance they're OOC but also, kind of whatever, I don't really care that much. I just wanted to write them like That.


	6. On First And Fierce Affirming Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> So uh,,,, I know I haven't updated in a while. Firstly, I got a job so I already have a lot less time on my hands. Secondly, I accidentally turned a oneshot into a six-chapter fic, so I've also been working on that (It's called (I'm So) Human if you want to check it out).
> 
> So I introduced the Witcher bois last chapter, and as I said then: I don't play the games, I don't read the books, and their Wiki pages didn't tell me anything useful about their personalities besides "Lambert is annoying" and "Eskel is quiet" so I just had to work with that. So they might be OOC cause I had to make up some personalities and uhh... yeah. I'm sticking with this one, guys.  
> Also, time for some chaos!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Jaskier stands there, frozen on the stairs, when suddenly he hears a shout above him. “Vesemir!” Ciri bumps into his shoulder as she barrels down the stairs, throwing herself into the older man’s arms. He chuckles, squeezing her a bit, before letting go. The girl is practically bouncing, as she hugs the two younger men as well.

He cocks his head, startling as he looks up and meets amber eyes. Vesemir stretches his hand out to him. “You must be Jaskier.” The Bard shakes it, nodding curtly. It is then that he realizes all eyes are pointed towards him, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

He waves lamely at the others, crossing his arms in front of him, as he gives Yennefer a confused look. Clearly, she and Ciri already seem to know the men, but they’ve never mentioned them to him before. He looks around nervously, a little part in the back of his head noting that all three of the strangers’ eyes are golden, like Geralt’s.

Something clicks in his mind. _Oh._

They’re Witchers. Geralt’s family.

He looks at Yennefer again. “ **You didn’t tell me.** ” If the Witchers were confused at his use of sign language, they didn’t show it.

His best friend shrugs. “I didn’t know if they were going to show up or not, I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

He looks at her incredulously. “ **Hopes up for _what?_** _”_

Vesemir replies, and Jaskier resists the urge to roll his eyes. _Of course he knows sign language. Can’t even have a private conversation these days._ “We’re here to help.”

The youngest-looking of the Witchers speaks up – Lambert, Jaskier recalls. “We heard Geralt got himself into trouble.” The Bard doesn’t like the way this Lambert-guy sounds so amused, and glares at him.

Vesemir rolls his eyes, and looks half over his shoulder, arms crossed in front of his broad chest. “Please do take this situation seriously, Lambert. Geralt is in significant danger.”

The other Witcher, the one with the scar on his face, slaps the youngest in the chest, grinning. “Yeah, _Lambert,_ you should take this seriously.”

Lambert pushes the other, muttering under his breath: “ _Fuck you, Eskel._ ”

“That’s enough, you two!” Vesemir’s voice booms through the hall, and Jaskier pulls up an eyebrow at Yennefer.

“ **Why did you invite them, again?** ” His patience was already running thin, with the strain this entire situation had put on him, the stress of what Nilfgaard might be doing to Geralt eating away at him from the inside. What he didn’t need, right now, was two bickering Witchers and an older version of the Geralt he met two decades ago in Posada.

Lambert throws his hands up, looking a bit offended. “Hey! We’re here to help get Geralt back!” _Of course he also knows sign language._ “Not our fault our little brother got himself kidnapped.”

Eskel rolls his eyes, looking pointedly at his brother. “ _You’re_ the youngest here, _idiot._ ”

Vesemir sighs, rubbing a thumb over his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut. “ _These two,_ ” he mutters under his breath, and Jaskier feels sympathy for the man.

Ciri pipes up: “Also, dad didn’t _get himself kidnapped_ , he was probably outmanned by, like, so many people.”

Eskel ruffles through her hair. “You’re right, lion cub,” he shoots a pointed look at Lambert, “he probably couldn’t defend himself.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up. “ **’ _Probably’?_** _”_ he signs at the same time Lambert looks around the hall incredulously.

“Is no one going to mention she called him ‘ _dad’? Hello?_ ” Vesemir sighs again, and Yennefer looks positively regretful that she had invited them.

“I’ve got a bottle of Toussaint Red, do you want some?” She asks the older Witcher, and he nods, following the Mage into the kitchen, closing the door behind them resolutely, leaving the others bickering in the hall.

Eskel raises his eyebrows at Ciri. “He’s right, though, you did call Geralt ‘dad’. Since when is that a thing?”

Ciri shrugs, looking annoyed. “I don’t know, since, like, a few months.”

Lambert gasps. “A few _months?_ Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because you were in Kaer Morhen, you idiots!” Ciri huffs, and Jaskier has to admit he’s impressed, as the little girl seems to have the upper hand over the two Witchers.

Lambert sputters. “Yeah, well, I mean… Geralt also told us nothing!”

Jaskier frowns. “ **Oh, really classy, blame the guy who isn’t here to defend himself.** ”

The Witcher gasps, throwing his hands in the air. “Who even _are_ you _?_ And why are you using sign language when you seem to be able to hear us just fine?”

That earns him a slap on the back of his head from Eskel. “He’s obviously mute, drowner-brains.” He turns to Jaskier, suspicious glint in his eyes. “Although, I do wonder who you are. Ciri didn’t mention you when she was in Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier looks between the three of them. “ ** _And?_ It doesn’t matter if you know who I am, you came into _my house, uninvited-_** _“_

“Actually, they _were_ invited, dad. And this is Yennefer’s hou-“ Ciri begins, quickly interrupted again by Lambert.

“’ _Dad’?_ You have _two dads?_ I can’t believe this, I didn’t even get one and she gets _two?_ ”

Eskel groans. “ _Shut up_ , Lambert.” He looks over at Ciri. “Quick question, though, why are you calling him ‘dad’ as well?”

Ciri rolls her eyes, arms crossed, her tone of voice very matter-of-fact, as if all of this is common knowledge. “Because he and my other dad are engaged, _duh._ ”

Eskel’s eyes widen, and Lambert gapes at her, then at Jaskier, then back at Ciri. “Excuse me, _what?_ ”

“Geralt never told us _that_.” Eskel adds, half under his breath: “Didn’t even know that was allowed.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “ **Wow, I wonder why he never told you two.** ”

Lambert gapes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you two are annoying and dramatic.” Lambert gasps theatrically at Ciri’s words.

“I am _not_ dramatic.” He says, though the hand he has put on his chest seems to indicate otherwise.

Eskel throws his hands in the air. “Are we just going to ignore the fact that Geralt – _our_ Geralt – got engaged?”

Lambert looks at Jaskier, brow furrowed. “Yeah, didn’t really expect our Geralt to be all” he waves his hand around a bit “lovey-dovey and stuff. I didn’t even know he had a boyfriend, he never mentioned one.”

Eskel cocks his head. “ _Didn’t_ he, though? I mean, I remember him not being able to shut up about this Bard that kept following him. What was his name? Jake?”

Lambert nods. “Something like that. Though I think it was more like Yake, or something.”

Ciri looks between them, eyebrows raised. “Was it Jaskier?”

“Yeah!” Lambert points at her enthusiastically. “That’s the guy! Wonder what happened to him.”

Jaskier fights the urge to slap himself in the forehead. “ **I’m _right here._** ”

Eskel frowns. “You?”

“ **Why does that surprise you so much?** ”

Lambert looks confused. “Uh… because you’re mute. And Geralt was talking about a _Bard_.”

“ **I _am_ a Bard!**” Jaskier feels heat rising up his cheeks.

“But you’re _mute._ ”

Suddenly, Vesemir’s booming voice bounces off the walls. “Everyone shut up!” He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a little vein pulsing at his temple. “I’ve had _enough._ Either go outside to yell at each other some more, or _shut. Up_.”

He looks at all of them one by one, gaze stern, and Jaskier catches a glimpse of a very red-looking Yennefer, hiccupping behind her hand as she tries to keep her laughter in.

It’s quiet for a few moments, and Vesemir nods. “Thank you.” He closes the kitchen door again, and Jaskier can hear his best friend laugh, as the older Witcher grumbles. “Godsdamned idiots.”

They look at each other for a few seconds, before Eskel shrugs. “I do want to know more about this engagement.”

Ciri beams, grabbing the hand of both Witchers, dragging them to the living room. “Come on, we can go to the garden.”

҉ ҉ ҉

They’re sitting around a small fire pit in the garden, even though it’s summer and the nights are still quite warm. Lambert is roasting dried meat over the fire on a stick he pulled from one of the trees around the edge of the yard.

Eskel watches disapprovingly, as Lambert tears a piece off with his teeth. “Why are you even doing that? The meat is already pre-cooked.”

“Yeah, but it tastes better like this,” Lambert says, after biting off another part.

Ciri clicks her tongue in annoyance. “Please don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s gross.”

Lambert raises his eyebrows at her. “Oh, I’m sorry, _your majesty._ ” He spreads his arms, pretending to bow to her from where he’s sitting on the grass. Ciri sighs and rolls her eyes.

“At least Jaskier has manners.” He looks at her. _I do? I do!_ He looks at the two Witchers triumphantly.

Eskel snickers. “Maybe that’s why Geralt wants to marry him.”

Jaskier frowns. “ **I have other qualities too, you know.** ”

Ciri nods enthusiastically. “He can bake amazing bread!”

He looks at her, fondness and annoyance mixing in his chest. “ **Not really helping, but thank you.** ”

Lambert shrugs. “Fair enough, though. Nothing better than some really good bread.”

“Do you ever think about something other than food?” Eskel sighs as Lambert looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Never mind, don’t answer that.”

He nods at Jaskier. “I just don’t understand how Geralt, of all people, has managed to get married before any of us.”

“ **We’re not married yet, we’re engaged.** ”

Eskel shrugs. “Still, Geralt is the most grumpy and anti-social person I know.” Lambert nods in confirmation at his brother’s words. “Not only that, but he suddenly has an entire family. How did that happen?”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to shrug, and Ciri beams, raising her hand. “Oh! I know! I know how it happened!”

Eskel nods in encouragement, and Ciri starts her rant. “So, I’m dad’s Child Surprise, but I didn’t know until my grandmother told me. But you already knew that.” She waves her hand dismissively.

Lambert looks confused. “Wait, which dad?”

“Yeah, the Witcher dad. Pay attention. So Bard dad started following Witcher dad twenty years ago, and he wrote a song about him. I’m sure you know it, it’s called _‘Toss a Coin To Your Witcher’._ ”

Lambert raises his eyebrows. “That’s _your_ song? Oh, I love that one so much, it’s given us a little bit less of a terrible reputation and a lot more coin hurled at our heads. Which is always better than, you know, rotten vegetables and stuff.”

Ciri continues: “And then Witcher dad _yelled at him!”_

Lambert gasps. “How rude of him.” Eskel rolls his eyes.

“And then Bard dad got attacked by a djinn and he lost his voice, and then Witcher dad found me and left me with you guys, and went to find Bard dad to say sorry.”

“As he should.”

“Lambert, _shut up._ ”

Ciri snaps her fingers. “ _Pay attention_. Anyways _,_ then Witcher dad got attacked and almost died or something, but he didn’t. Then _Bard dad_ got attacked, and they _both_ almost died. And then Witcher dad said sorry, they kissed, I showed up, and then they got engaged, like, a few weeks ago.”

Lambert looks at Jaskier, seemingly impressed. “You just followed him around for twenty years? You did know he was a Witcher, right?”

Jaskier scrunches his nose, confused. “ **Yes, obviously, that’s why I followed him. Adventures make for great song material.** ”

“Yeah, but for _twenty years?_ ”

Ciri sighs, and rolls her eyes. “Well, obviously, they were already in love by then.”

Lambert looks between them. “Then why’d it take _twenty years_ for them to kiss?”

Eskel snickers. “Because Geralt’s stupid and thick-headed like that.”

“Fair enough” Lambert raises his roasted meat as a toast, taking a bite out of it.

It’s quiet for a few moments, the silence only broken by the sound of crickets and the popping of the fire. Jaskier sighs. “ **You aren’t what I expected from Witchers.** ”

Lambert chuckles. “Yeah, hanging out with gloomy, old Geralt for twenty years will do that to you.”

He smiles. “ **I guess. Still, it’s very nice meeting you guys, even under these** ” he waves his hand slightly “ **circumstances.** ”

“Hey,” Jaskier looks at Eskel, “don’t worry yourself sick over him. I’m sure he’s holding up in Nilfgaard’s hands. He’s a tough one.”

Jaskier shrugs. “ **Of course I worry about him. That’s my job as his husband to be.** ”

Lambert chuckles. “Fair enough. I guess it is.” He frowns. “Does that mean I have to start calling you ‘brother’?”

“ **Please don’t.** ” They all laugh a little, and Jaskier notices Ciri’s eyes are starting to droop. He stands up, extending his hand to her. “ **Come on, it’s past your bedtime.** ”

She rubs her eyes and yawns, getting up. “Goodnight, uncle Lambert and uncle Eskel.” The two Witchers bid her goodnight, and Jaskier can’t help but notice the overjoyed glances they exchange at their newfound titles.

He ushers her upstairs, hugging her goodnight before going back downstairs. He looks into Yennefer’s study when he crosses the living room, seeing his friend and Vesemir in conversation, seemingly about potions, as Yennefer holds several vials with different-coloured liquids in her hand. He shrugs, and walks outside.

He stops in front of the campfire, the heat of the flames making the skin on his leg itch under the fabric of his pants. “ **I’m going to sleep as well. Do you guys have anywhere to stay the night?** ”

Eskel shrugs. “We’ve got tents, it’s fine. We’ll set them up in the woods behind the garden.”

Lambert winks. “Maybe we’ll pay all those lovely Mages there a visit.”

“Shut up, Lambert.”

Jaskier smiles. “ **Right. Goodnight, then.** ” He walks back inside, waving to Yennefer as she spots him, and makes his way upstairs.

He’s lying in bed, staring at the soft moonlight filtering through the creamy curtains, falling on the canopy above his head. He’s thinking about Geralt again, as usual, but this time he finds himself drifting off to sleep, for the first time in a long while, as Eskel’s words echo in his brain. _He’s a tough one._

҉ ҉ ҉

He wakes up with a start, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of morning light.

“Dad, wake up! Wake up!” Ciri shakes his shoulders and he tries to bat her away, though she is persistent. “Wake up!”

“ **What is it?** ” He sighs, as she lets go of his shoulder, dragging at his arm instead.

“You have to get up!” He groans, trying to hold onto the soft covers and the remnants of a good night’s rest that linger in his mind like a fog.

“ **Why?** ”

Ciri groans in annoyance, resorting to pushing at his shoulder again. “They found him!”

He blinks, as the words get through to his head. He sits up, leaning on one elbow. “ **What?** ”

Her smile is bright enough to rival the morning sun. “They found him, they found dad!”

His breath catches in his lungs, as the weight of the words finally hit him. _They found Geralt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also come yell at me or follow me or talk to me or stalk me or WHATEVER on tumblr @queen-squish (I changed my username lmao). I also post edits and memes there, it's great fun, so swing by if you're in the neighbourhood!
> 
> Also, yes. Another kind of cliffhanger. Sue me. (Pls don't sue me I'm broke)


	7. Of Sunlight, Sunlight, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> *chanting* Geralt POV! Geralt POV! Geralt POV!  
> Have some angst!
> 
> Also I'm so sorry it took ages for me to update this, but I got a job so that's been keeping me busy. Also I'm working on (I'm So) Human as well, and every chapter of that fic is absolutely huge so that takes up a lot of time as well. (Also made a little ficlet called Looking Up For Heaven, which is a soulmate and a modern AU in one, so check that out if you're interested!)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

His back screams in agony, as he shifts slightly, trying to find a position on the cold, stone floor that isn’t immensely uncomfortable and painful. The bleeding had stopped, after a while, though the wounds are barely healed. Still, every small move of the muscles in his back sends new waves of pain across his body, stretching its paralyzing touch all the way down to his toes and fingers.

He sighs, and slowly pushes himself into a seating position, giving up on trying to sleep. Instead, he sits cross-legged on the floor – with some trouble – and closes his eyes to meditate. His thoughts are scattered, his mind fuzzy, and a small tendril of fear flares up in his chest. ~~He’s scared of forgetting, of losing himself in this cold, damp cell.~~

So, he organizes his thoughts, by cataloguing the things he knows.

He knows he is Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher. He knows he has a Child Surprise, Ciri. He knows he has a good friend, Yennefer. He knows he has two brothers, Eskel and Lambert. He knows he has a father figure, Vesemir. He knows he ~~is~~ was engaged to Jaskier, who has been murdered ~~in cold blood~~ by Nilfgaard. He knows they abducted him. He knows he is in a dungeon of sorts. He knows there is a guard by the door, staring at him with contempt in his eyes, and he knows there’s another one, outside his cell.

The list ends there, worryingly short, and he frowns. Fine, what does he not know, then?

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, for starters. The food comes at inconsistent times, and is often not enough to appease his hunger, making him weaker and his thoughts even more incoherent. The guards change either too quickly or too late to be normal. He can see what time it is from the angle of the sunlight shining through the dirty window high in the stone wall, but sometimes time seems to move either too fast or too slow. He could have sworn he saw the light moving backwards once, ~~and he feels like he’s losing his mind.~~

He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t hear any birds, nor the wind, nor anything else, other than the heartbeats of the guards, and his own. No one talks, except for the Eel, when he feels like dignifying the Witcher with his presence, and the young guard, the one with the sea-green eyes, when he had told him his name. Everything around him is encompassed in an unnatural silence, ~~and it makes him uncomfortable.~~

So he doesn’t know what time it is, where he is, or how long he’s been here. He doesn’t know when he’ll eat next, when he’ll see another kind face, when he’ll finally be able to sleep properly. He doesn’t know how to escape. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance to really mourn Jaskier.

He doesn’t know a lot of things, ~~and he’s losing hope~~ and it annoys him.

He opens his eyes as the door to his cell opens, and the young guard steps in – Rhirthisech, his name was. The angry-smelling guard leaves, walking down the hall until Geralt can’t hear his heartbeat anymore, the guard that had been standing outside the door following him.

It’s quiet for a few moments, and Geralt closes his eyes again, trying to meditate, failing to keep his mind from wandering. His nose tingles, as something in the air changes. The young guard smells of curiosity again, a scent that tickles, like when he’s smelled a candle or a perfume too deeply.

The smell becomes nearly unbearable, and Geralt is ready to snap at the boy to spit it out or stop being so loud with his emotions, when a soft voice breaks the silence. “I thought Witchers didn’t feel.”

Geralt opens one eye, peering at the teen, before closing it again. He doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps his mouth shut, hoping the young guard will give up and go back to being scared of him. _Like everyone always is. Like they should be. ~~Like Jaskier never was.~~_

The scent of curiosity itches at his nose again, sharp and demanding. A few more moments of quiet, and Geralt can hear the start of a sentence in the back of the teen’s throat, only to be cut off again immediately. It repeats several more times.

He sighs and opens his eyes fully, giving the young guard an annoyed glare. Still no fear. “Spit it out.”

The boy startles a bit, though he regains his composure quickly. “Is it true, then? That Witchers don’t have emotions?”

Geralt pulls up his eyebrows at the teen. “Does it matter?”

Rhirthisech’s voice is soft, sea-green eyes sincere under the black, Nilfgaardian helmet. “It does to me.”

The Witcher scoffs, yellow eyes incredulous, confusion in his chest. “Why?”

The teen shrugs. It is quiet again for a few minutes, as the young guard stares at the back wall. Geralt is about to close his eyes to try and meditate once more, but the soft voice speaks up again: “Who was he?”

Sea-green eyes look at him confused when Geralt shoots him a death glare. “Who?” he asks, very much aware who Rhirthisech is asking about. A silent warning in his eyes to back away, to leave the subject be.

Rhirthisech does not heed the warning, and keeps on talking. ~~It reminds him of Jaskier.~~

“The man who was killed, who you cried for.” A sharp tug at his chest, and Geralt sighs as the grief hits him again.

He looks up, into the teen’s earnest eyes, curiosity and sincerity in his scent, making for a delicate smell of flowers, teetering on the edge of becoming troublesome for the Witcher’s nose.

“He was the love of my life.” The truth, for once. He has no desire or need to lie.

Rhirthisech looks down at his feet. “So Witchers do feel.”

Geralt nods, closing his eyes again, ending the conversation. “Yes, we do.”

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s a day later, or a week later, or a year later ~~, or an hour earlier~~. Geralt can’t tell. His mind is fuzzy, and he has to blink a couple of times to clear the fog from his vision. He’s not sure if he’s fallen asleep, or if he meditated too deeply, but he notices the cell is suddenly empty, Rhirthisech gone.

He cocks his head, straining his ears, frowning when he doesn’t hear a heartbeat outside his cell, or anywhere nearby, except for his. Maybe Nilfgaard has abandoned him – an almost hysterical part of his mind thinks.

Still, the cuffs are secured tightly around his wrists and ankles. He stands up slowly, painfully, as the barely-healed wounds on his back stretch a little too tightly and uncomfortably. The chains around his legs are short, shackled to the floor, and he finds out he can’t put a step forward. Those around his arms give him space to move, though, and he bends down, tugging at the ring in the stone floor that anchor the bonds around his ankles.

It doesn’t budge an inch, the metal too strong to bend, the stone too tough too break ~~, Geralt too weak to free himself.~~

He stands up straight again, back protesting, as noise fills the hallway outside his cell, his door bouncing off the wall as it’s slammed open.

His heart sighs, then sings in relief, as he meets Yennefer’s purple eyes. “Geralt! Thank the gods, we’ve searched everywhere for you.”

She walks over to him, crouching down to inspect the chains around his ankles, tugging at them, probably figuring out a way to break them without hurting him. He frowns. “’We’?”

She nods absentmindedly, and footsteps in the hall draw his attention again. He looks up, and meets blue eyes he would recognize anywhere.

Jaskier sighs in relief, half-sobbing as he stumbles forward, bridging the gap between them. Geralt is still for a moment, frozen and numb, the realization not fully settled yet. Finally, he hugs Jaskier back, and he feels tears sting in his eyes. “Jaskier…”

“Gods, Geralt, I’ve missed you so much.” The Witcher frowns, and pulls back, holding his love a few inches away, yellow eyes inspecting the familiar face, unsure if he really heard what he thinks he heard, or if it had been ~~another~~ a figment of his imagination.

“What?” He tries not to sound too worried or weirded out, afraid of hurting his love’s feelings if he did. ~~The last thing he wanted was to see Jaskier ever hurt again.~~

Jaskier’s hand comes up to cup Geralt’s cheek, the coolness of his fingers seeping into his skin. “We were worried sick, I was so scared they had killed you, or…”

Geralt’s frown turns into a scowl, and he pushes Jaskier away, ignoring the pang he feels at the Bard’s hurt expression ~~, he has hurt him again~~. His cheeks sear were Jaskier’s cold fingers had been just moments before. He notices the emotions on his love’s face doesn’t really reach his eyes, and that the colour of them is slightly off, the blue a little too grey. He takes a deep breath, the smell of mud and murky water assaulting his nose. Finally, he strains his ears, and hears Jaskier’s heartbeat, steady and slow. Too steady, too slow.

He takes a step back, and to the side, away from Yennefer’s hands. He notices her eyes are slightly the wrong shade of purple.

“You’re not real.” He tries to take another step back, his movements restricted by the chains still around his ankles, as not-Jaskier reaches out.

“Geralt, it’s me, it’s always been me. My love-“ The Witcher feels heat building in his chest, anger red-hot in his veins, and he slaps not-Jaskier’s hand away, chains clanging against each other noisily as he does so.

“Don’t call me that. You’re not Jaskier. _Jaskier is dead._ ” He growls out the last words, teeth clenched, jaw set.

A heartbeat comes and passes, and suddenly not-Jaskier laughs coldly, not-Yennefer standing up, looking impressed. “He figured that out quite soon.” Her face morphs, and in the blink of an eye, she’s a Nilfgaardian soldier.

“That, he did.” Not-Jaskier has turned into the Eel, and Geralt growls at him as he takes the Witcher’s chin in his cold, unforgiving fingers. “I wonder how.” He pulls his eyebrows up, waiting for an answer.

“Fuck you.” The Eel tuts, and lets go of his chin, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Now, now, Witcher. That is no way to talk to a friend. How very rude of you.” He grins, muddy brown eyes crinkling in genuine delight. “Obviously, you must be punished now.”

He snaps his fingers at the soldier. “Bring me a torch from the hall.” He slaps Geralt’s cheek condescendingly. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

Geralt sneers at him, anger coursing through his veins. The soldier returns with the requested torch, and the Eel takes a knife from his belt, the crude leather handle worn.

“You’re probably wondering why I did all this.” He looks at Geralt expectantly, as if he wants the Witcher to ask for an explanation. He doesn’t. The Eel continues anyway.

“Well, you see, my dear Witcher, it gets quite boring here from time to time. And what’s more fun than breaking a man from the inside?” He smirks, pressing the tip of his finger against the pointed end of the blade. “Better yet, you’re not _just_ a man, you’re a _Witcher_.”

He presses the tip of the knife against Geralt’s nose. “All the more fun to break you, then.”

He steps back, hanging the blade in the flames, the light flickering in his cold, muddy brown eyes. For once his gaze is not emotionless; he looks delighted.

“Anyways, I thought it would be fun to commemorate this” he takes the knife from the fire, the metal red-hot “ _victory_ you’ve had on me. Though, maybe you won’t be so lucky next time. We’ll see.”

His hand grips Geralt’s left shoulder, squeezing painfully, as he presses the tip of the searing blade into the Witcher’s right shoulder. Pain explodes as the skin sizzles under the heat, and Geralt clenches his jaw, determined not to cry out.

Finally, the knife is removed, and Geralt releases his breath in one quick scoff. The Eel smiles, inspecting the thin, violently red stripe the blade has branded into the Witcher’s skin. “Hmm. Very pretty.”

He moves back, wiping the now cooled-down blade on a handkerchief he has pulled from one of his pockets. He waves his hand dismissively to the guard. “Go, get that useless boy to stand guard. What’s his name again?” He rolls his muddy brown eyes. “Whatever, doesn’t matter.”

And with that, they’re both gone from the cell, and Geralt is left alone as the door closes behind them. He lowers himself on the ground, with some trouble, pressing the cool metal of the chains around his arm against the burn, hissing quietly as he does so.

҉ ҉ ҉

Ten minutes later, or maybe an hour later, or maybe a week later, Rhirthisech joins him again, standing guard next to the door silently for half an hour. He eyes the new, red mark on Geralt’s skin, curiosity and worry in his scent. ~~It reminds him of Jaskier.~~

Geralt sighs, as the teen shuffles on his feet a little, and he can once again hear the start of a sentence stuck in the back of the boy’s throat. “Spit it out, Rhirthisech.”

The young guard looks up, sea-green eyes surprised and delighted. “You remembered my name.”

Geralt nods tiredly, ~~almost~~ regretting starting the conversation. “Not much else to do around here.”

The sea-green eyes are too excited for Geralt’s liking, but he decides to humour the teen. “I know you want to ask me something.”

“What’s it like out there?” The question takes the Witcher by surprise, and he simply stares at the young guard, who has an expectant look on his face.

“What do you mean?”

Rhirthisech puts his spear on the ground, and Geralt listens for anyone else who may be present or approaching in the hall, sure the boy would be punished terribly for doing something like this. The young guard moves forward, sitting in front of the Witcher.

“I’ve only ever known Nilfgaard and serving my country. What’s it like” he waves his hand to the dirty window, high in the stone wall “out there? In different countries?”

Geralt cocks his head, fighting to keep a smile from dancing across his lips. It’s been a while since he’s seen someone so curious and excited around him, so carefree and fearless. ~~It reminds him of Jaskier. It reminds him of Jaskier. It reminds him of Jaskier.~~

~~But Jaskier’s dead.~~ He ignores the sharp pang in his chest.

He shrugs. “It’s… fine, I guess.” His brow creases as memories flood him. “I used to travel around, fight monsters, get coin for it.”

Rhirthisech removes his helmet, an unruly mop of jet-black hair springing out from underneath it, and for the first time, Geralt can see how young the boy truly is. Barely fifteen, maybe. His sea-green eyes are filled with wonder. “You can do that? Just… travel around?”

Geralt frowns again, though he tries to make the boy feel like he isn’t judging him. ~~Since when does he take other people’s emotions into consideration?~~ “You… can’t?”

Rhirthisech shakes his head. “No, we’re not allowed. Only when our squadron goes somewhere, and even then, we travel mostly by portal.” He gets a faraway and dreamy look in his eyes. “I’d love to see a forest sometime.”

~~Geralt would love to see the forest again~~. He cocks his head. “You’ve never seen a forest before?”

The teen shakes his head again, sea-green eyes focused on the back wall. “No, I was born in the capital, and I grew up there. I went to train for the army when I was eight, as usual, which was in the mountains. Now I’m here.”

Disbelief rises in his chest, and he’s not sure if he heard what the boy said correctly. “You started training when you were _eight?_ ”

Rhirthisech nods, then shrugs. “All orphans do. Because usually you take your father’s profession but well…” he rubs the back of his neck, and Geralt can feel a note of sadness creep into the ever-present scent of curiosity “since I didn’t have one, I had to become a soldier.” He shrugs again.

Something stirs in Geralt, and his mind flashes back to the training he’d had to endure when he was younger. ~~The boy reminds him of himself.~~

“How old are you, Rhirthisech?” The teen looks up, squaring his shoulder unconsciously, as if to appear bigger.

“I’m fifteen, but I’m a very good soldier. I may be a little… thinner and smaller, but that doesn’t mean I’m not as good as the others.” Geralt gets a sneaking suspicion that the boy has said this a hundred times before already, as if he has had to defend himself against sceptics and bullies his whole life. ~~The boy reminds him of himself.~~

He smiles, softly, reassuringly. “I believe you.”

It is quiet for a few seconds, and Geralt’s mind wanders back to the beach-side cottage, and to his home in the wooded hills of Lyria. “So you’ve only ever seen mountains?”

Rhirthisech shrugs. “And the capital. I’ve heard of other things, like the ocean, and… meadows I think they’re called?” Geralt nods. “But I’ve never seen them before.” The boy smells sad again. “Would love to, someday. Though I doubt I will. At least not anytime soon.”

He recognizes the dreamy, wistful look in the sea-green eyes, ~~the boy reminds him of himself,~~ and he smiles softly. “Would you like me to describe it to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely vexed by the fact that there's barely any info about Nilfgaardian's daily life on the Witcher Wiki so I'm making my own goddamn canon. Sue me (please don't sue me I'm broke).
> 
> Also! Come talk to me or follow me or yell at me or stalk me or WHATEVER on tumblr.com @queen-squish, I post memes and edits there so swing by if you're in the neighbourhood! It's great fun I promise.


	8. I Had Been Lost To You, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> Y'all finally get to find out where Geralt is! Yay! Also time for a little subplot because life doesn't stop, even if Geralt is freaking missing lmao.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He’s up in an instant, bouncing down the stairs after Ciri, following the hushed whispers coming from the living room.

He spots Yennefer immediately, and makes his way over to her, zigzagging between the younger Mages and the Witchers. “ **Is it true? Did they find him?** ”

Her purple eyes shine brightly, and she nods excitedly. “One of the younger Mages did, Isheela I think her name is. She has a” she makes a vague movement with her hand “gift for tracking untraceable portals, I heard Triss say.”

He frowns at her. “ **Didn’t even know that was possible. Aren’t untraceable portals supposed to be… untraceable?** ”

She shrugs, scoffing. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know, either. And Tissaia didn’t bother telling me one of her students could do that.”

“ **Maybe she didn’t want to get your hopes up.** ” She scoffs again, rolling her eyes at him.

“Still, she should have told me.”

He looks at her, annoyance in his eyes. “ **You’re one to talk. You didn’t even tell me you had invited the other Witchers.** ”

She glances at her feet for a second, and has the decency to look at least half-guilty. “Sorry about that. I just didn’t think they’d actually show up. But you’re right, I should have said something.”

He smiles at her. “ **It’s fine, I guess.** ” He leans back against the wall, surveying the packed room. He sees Triss, as she makes her way over to them, standing next to Yennefer, the two of them exchanging a particular kind of look that Jaskier can’t quite identify.

He sees Ciri, as she talks to the Witchers, who are huddled together near the doorway to the hall, and he sees her smile, carefree and excited. Something sweet blooms in his chest, stretching its warm tendrils over the frozen fields of his wasteland. He hears Vesemir laugh, booming voice momentarily drowning out the chatter, before fading back down, as he ruffles the girl’s golden hair.

He is surrounded by friends, family, allies; yet he’s never felt more alone in his life. All he wants is Geralt, right there, right now, right beside him. Telling him some gods-awful joke, or making fun of his brothers, or just _being here_ ; a silent, reassuring presence.

He’s not here, though, and his absence leaves a gaping hole next to where Jaskier’s leaning against the wall, a silence and quietude he hates, more than anything, in his mind and in his heart.

The past few weeks without Geralt have been the longest and most torturous ones in his life.

҉ ҉ ҉

_They walked through the streets of Oxenfurt together, hand in hand, their footsteps echoing over the cobblestone squares, bouncing off the tall buildings that line the streets. The sun had long set, the night sky starlit, lampposts lining the streets and emitting a golden light._

_They were on their way back to the beach-side cottage, but they took their time, the lively crowds from that afternoon thinning out as the night progressed, the streets quiet except from soft chatter coming from restaurants and taverns._

_They stopped at the university square, and Jaskier looked up at the towers and turrets of Oxenfurt Academy, orange light from the street lamps casting many shadows on its walls, a small smile on his face. Music drifted from one of the taverns, soft and sweet, and Jaskier looked at Geralt, as someone began to sing in the distance._

“All your acting, your thin disguise. All your perfectly delivered lines. They don’t fool me, you’ve been lonely. Too long.”

_Geralt turned to him, all golden eyes and fond expressions, and let go of his hand. Jaskier looked at him questioningly, as his love took a step back, something sparkling in his eyes. His Witcher smiled, and extended his hand again, palm flat up. “Would you care for a dance?”_

_Jaskier suppressed the urge to laugh, though Geralt’s smile had turned a bit cheeky as well. Instead, he lay his hand in his love’s, making a show of curtseying, before they moved towards each other, the Bard putting his hand on his Witcher’s shoulder, who in turn, put his hand on the small of Jaskier’s back._

_Gently, softly, they started swaying on the sweet music, still drifting from the tavern across the square. Only illuminated by the golden light from the street lamps, the square empty except for them._

“You’ve held your head up, you’ve fought the fight. You bear the scars, you’ve done your time. Listen to me, you’ve been lonely. Too long.”

_Jaskier smiled, a soft warmth radiating in his chest, and laid his forehead against Geralt’s. Their breaths intertwined, and their noses brushed. The air was caught in his lungs for a few seconds, as his love brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing Jaskier’s knuckles lightly. His breath fanned over the engagement ring that Jaskier hoped one day would become a familiar weight on his finger._

_Golden eyes met blue ones, and they smiled at each other, still gently swaying under the stars. He’d never taken Geralt for a dancer, but then again, he’d never expected him to love the Bard back, either. Life was full of surprises, and his Witcher had always been the best one._

_“_ Let me in the walls you’ve built around. We can light a match, and burn them down. And let me hold your hand and dance ‘round and ‘round the flames, in front of us.

Dust to dust.”

҉ ҉ ҉

He looks up, as the door to the garden opens, and Tissaia walks in, one of the younger Mages right behind her. They both look tired, but whereas the Headmistress holds her head high, commanding the room, the girl lets her shoulders sag, dark circles under her eyes.

He reaches up to his neck to touch the glass vial with Geralt’s hair he’s been wearing over the past few days, but his fingers find air. Something in his chest cracks a little as he realizes he left it upstairs in his hurry to get to the living room.

A hush falls over the small crowd, and people part ways to let them through. They walk to the table, a large map covering almost the entire surface, the couches around it moved against the walls earlier.

Jaskier can practically hear everyone holding their breath in anticipation, eager to hear where Geralt is. Tissaia casts a look around, before her voice rings out, stronger and more confident than he could ever hope to be: “We know where Nilfgaard is keeping the Witcher.” She nods to the girl, who blushes slightly. “Isheela here has managed to track the portals used to abduct him, and to deliver the letter.”

“So where are they keeping him, then?” Ciri’s voice is loud and clear, and Jaskier looks at her. She has her arms crossed, and her foot is tapping impatiently on the floor, eyes skeptical and annoyed.

“Patience, little lion cub.” Tissaia leans forwards, resting her palms on the large map. She looks around for a few seconds, trying to find her target, and Jaskier stretches his neck out to get a better view. Eventually, she points to a mountain range southwest of Lyria.

“He’s in the Amell mountains, at the northern borders of Nilfgaard’s territory.” She nods to Isheela again, encouragement in her eyes, and the girl takes a step forward, blushing deeply again.

Her voice is frail and high, but holds the beginnings of a certain confidence that most older Mages have. “He’s in the Weeping Keep. I staked out there for a day, and the place is not abandoned, contrary to what everyone believes. I’ve seen soldiers bearing the black sun of Nilfgaard, patrolling on the walls.”

 _The Weeping Keep._ Jaskier shudders involuntarily, as he recalls the many stories he’s heard of the place. It was a ruin, half built into the mountainside, its grey stones barely visible against the darkness of the rocks. It had been an outpost of Nazair, before falling into disuse and disrepair a few hundreds of years ago.

Some people said it was haunted, as anyone who dared come close could hear the screaming and crying of ghosts, fallen soldiers, murdered maidens, or other unfortunate souls - depending on who you’d ask. Others said it was simply the cold, harsh wind, blowing through the empty windows, along collapsed corridors and abandoned rooms.

It’s a place of legend, though none of them positive, and Jaskier can see why Nilfgaard has chosen these ruins to reclaim as theirs.

Triss’ voice rises above the soft murmurs of the crowd. “Do you know where they’re keeping him, exactly?”

Isheela cocks her head to one side, then to the other. “Sort of. They’re definitely keeping him in the dungeons. The other rooms are too easy to escape from, or they’ve collapsed a long time ago. I don’t know how to get there, though. I didn’t want to needlessly put myself in danger by entering the Keep.” She looks to Tissaia, who nods in approval.

“You did well, Isheela.” The young Mage smiles a little, a bit of tension flooding from her shoulders, her blue eyes bright with pride.

Vesemir speaks up, his deep voice bouncing off the walls. “How many men?”

Isheela shakes her head. “Hard to say. Somewhere between fifty and seventy. I’m sure I counted them right, but it just feels… wrong.”

“Not enough,” Eskel confirms. A small murmur washes over the living room, confused looks exchanged.

“So either they’re very stupid,” Tissaia’s voice hushes everyone again, “or they’re very confident. Knowing Nilfgaard, it’s probably the latter.”

Yennefer speaks up next to Jaskier. “Maybe they’ve got another trick up their sleeves. Gods know they did at the battle of Sodden Hill.”

Everyone nods knowingly, and Jaskier recalls his best friend telling him of some sort of mind control Nilfgaard had on several people, during the Battle, making them turn on their allies. It had gotten his friend injured and dozens of people killed, he remembers. A chill runs down his spine.

Tissaia waits until the room is quiet once more, then continues. “You’re probably right, Yennefer. However, we can’t find out what Nilfgaard might be up to without putting someone in serious danger, and I’m not willing to take that risk.” She sighs, eyes scanning the map as if she might find a clue there. “So the question remains: what is our course of action?”

Lambert raises his hand. “I say we attack.” That earns him a few strange looks and a half-hearted push from Eskel. “What? I mean it. We’re not going to find out anything else by just watching the Keep, and, like you said, getting too close could be dangerous.” He shrugs. “We just need a good plan of attack, and we’re ready to go.”

It is quiet for a few moments, until Yennefer speaks out: “As much as I hate to admit it, Lambert’s right.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that first part.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “We should start planning, the sooner we get to Geralt, the better.”

Tissaia nods. “Let’s vote, shall we? Unless, of course, someone has something else to say.” It is quiet in the living room as she looks around. “Alright, those in favour of drafting a plan of action, and attacking within two weeks, raise your hand.”

Everyone raises their hand.

She nods again. “Then it is decided.”

҉ ҉ ҉

That afternoon, he’s in the woods again, practicing with his chakram. An endless cycle of throwing, catching, throwing, catching – but he does get better at it, and has started practicing while moving, from longer distances, and from different angles.

Twenty yards to his right, Triss and Yennefer are sparring again, this time with weapons. He hears the clang of metal, and he looks up in time to see Yennefer cross two of her throwing daggers, catching Triss’ sword mid-blow. Sweat is glistening on her brow, visible from where he’s standing, but her purple eyes spit fire as she ducks and makes a move to the left, feigning an attack from that side. She moves to the right at the last possible moment, though, catching the other Mage off-guard.

She stops her dagger just before the metal kisses the side of Triss’ neck, the sun glinting off the sharp edge of the blade. They stand still for a moment, chests heaving with ragged breaths, looking into each other’s eyes.

Yennefer lowers her blade slowly, and Jaskier sees a dangerous, cunning glint in Triss’ eyes he’s never seen before, before she takes Yenna’s half-outstretched arm, looping her leg behind the other Mage’s calf, tackling her to the ground. Triss lands half-crouched over Yennefer, her sword on his best friend’s throat.

Once again, they’re still for a few heartbeats, Yennefer’s head tilted back as the sword kisses her neck, looking at Triss through half-lidded eyes, her breathing shallow. Eventually, Triss laughs and gets up, offering Yennefer her hand, helping her up as well. His best friend blushes as she lets go of Triss’ hands quickly, as if her touch burns her skin.

Jaskier’s mind flashes back to the countless times Geralt had helped him up; after the Bard had fallen of his own accord, after he’d been pushed away roughly by his Witcher to get him away from a monster, after he had woken up on the forest floor during their travels. He remembers the way Geralt had always let go too quickly for Jaskier’s liking, and how the Bard’s skin had mourned the loss of contact. He remembers the redness that always crept up on his cheeks afterwards.

He now watches as Yennefer starts blushing, softly, and he recognizes the glint in Triss’ eyes, the way she slowly, carefully retrieves her hand after the other Mage has let go.

He looks away.

҉ ҉ ҉

The next day, he’s sparring with Eskel, one of Geralt’s daggers in his hand, trying his best to not get disarmed by the Witcher. He fails miserably, and the weapon _thuds_ on the forest floor. Eskel takes a step back, as Jaskier puts his hands on his knees, gasping deep breath after deep breath. He wipes his forehead, frowning as he can feel his hair sticking to his skin uncomfortably.

After he’s caught his breath for a few seconds, he stands up straight again, walking over to the dagger, taking it from the ground. The metal handle is slick in his sweaty grip, and he wipes his hands on his shirt, before turning to the Witcher again, nodding at him.

Eskel gets into fighting stance again, his own dagger loose in his grip, and Jaskier notices, with a huff of annoyance, that the Witcher hasn’t even broken a sweat, somehow.

They both look up, as Yennefer yells at someone in the distance. “ _What the hell did you do?_ ” She sounds angry, and her shouts are immediately followed by a softer voice, stammering, sounding fearful.

He pushes the knife in his belt, half-jogging his way to Yennefer, as she’s yelling at a cowering Mage, one of the younger girls from Aretuza, tears in her fearful eyes as she keeps saying: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Ciri is tugging at Yennefer’s arm. “It’s fine! It’s fine, it was an accident!”

Jaskier puts himself between his best friend and the younger Mage, hands up, trying to calm Yenna down. “ **Woah, what’s going on?** ”

Yennefer’s eyes spit fire. “She hurt Ciri, she _injured_ her while they were sparring.”

Jaskier ignores the pleas of ‘ _I’m sorry, please don’t kill me_ ’ behind him, and looks at Yennefer, annoyance in his eyes. “ **You’re overreacting. It was just an accident. It happens.** ”

She scowls at him. “Not if I have any say in it.”

“You don’t. Calm down, Yen.” His best friend looks up as Triss puts her hand on her arm. Jaskier notes in the back of his mind that she wasn’t here before, but that she must’ve come running at all the yelling, as well. She continues, quieter this time: “You can’t protect her forever.”

Yennefer exhales a long, laborious breath, closing her eyes for a second to calm down. She steps back, eyeing the girl, still standing behind Jaskier, with an annoyed look. “I won’t kill you, so stop yammering.”

He shoots her a look, before turning around to the younger Mage. “ **It’s okay, It wasn’t your fault.** ” The girl nods shakily, whispering another apology to Ciri, before leaving, finding comfort with the other, younger Sorceresses, who had been looking at the commotion from a safe distance.

He turns back to Yennefer, and sees her and Triss bent over Ciri’s arm. A shallow gash runs across the girl’s lower arm, bleeding, but not serious. “I said, it’s fine. You can just fix it, right?”

Yennefer nods, and he can see relief in her eyes. “Yes, it should be alright.”

Triss smiles, putting an arm around the young girl’s shoulders. “Come on, we’ll go to the cottage, get you all patched up.”

Yennefer nods, but Jaskier slaps her against the shoulder. “ **We need to talk.** ”

She sighs, and motions for Triss and Ciri to go ahead. “I’ll catch up, don’t worry.”

She turns to Jaskier, her arms crossed in front of her chest, and he gives her an annoyed look. “ **You have to stop threatening violence every time something happens to Ciri. Otherwise, no one will want to spar with her, and you know how badly she wants to train.** ”

She shrugs. “The girl was being careless, she could’ve killed her.”

“ **But she didn’t.** ” They hold each other’s gazes for a few moments, a silent battle of their wills. Yennefer sighs, and deflates a bit as she gives up.

“Fine, whatever.” She looks at Triss and Ciri, as they walk down the hill to the cottage. The other Mage’s laugh rings like silver bells through the woods, as the younger girl says something to her, and he can see the way Yennefer’s face lights up at the sound. It reminds him of all the times his attention would be fully drawn by Geralt’s laugh – the rare, deep sound more beautiful than any music he could ever make.

He doesn’t realize he reached his hand up until his fingers touch the cool glass of his necklace, the lock of Geralt’s hair Nilfgaard sent them captured inside, finding some comfort in the smooth surface of the vial. He watches as Yennefer’s gaze follows Triss’ every movement, as the Mage walks through the forest with Ciri, something he can’t quite identify in his friend’s purple eyes.

He looks away.

҉ ҉ ҉

Two days later, he’s upstairs reading, as he hears laughter coming from the living room. Yennefer had requested earlier that day that he stays upstairs for the night, as she had planned a dinner for Triss and her. Jaskier had looked at her questioningly, but she had just flipped him off, and told him it was none of his business.

He now realizes that, with the stress of trying to get Ciri to go to bed in time - always having to negotiate and hassle to get her to follow her evening’s routine - and having to clean the living room downstairs for the unexpected guest, he had forgotten to eat dinner.

He sighs, as his stomach grumbles, and he knows he can’t ignore the hunger much longer. Softly, he pushes Moon from his lap, who takes it as a personal offense, batting her claws at him, bright blue eyes angry as she meows loudly. She disappears under the bed, and he slips out from under the soft, thin sheets.

Quietly, he opens his door, and is greeted with the sound of conversation and laughter. He frowns. Yennefer never talks or laughs this much around him. _Interesting._

Softly, he pads down the stairs, glad to see the kitchen door already open. He takes two quick strides across the hall, keeping one eye on the living room, to make sure neither of the Mages sees him. He doesn’t really know why he doesn’t want them to, but he feels like he would disturb whatever they had going on, and he would really like to not get murdered by Yennefer, _thank you very much_.

He takes an apple from the basket on the counter, some cheese from a cupboard. _That will do for tonight_.

He’s making his quick getaway across the hall again, when he glances to his left, stopping dead in his tracks. In his attempts to try and be sneaky, he hadn’t realized the laughter and chatter had died down. He sees Yennefer and Triss, intertwined.

Kissing.

There, in the living room, almost in the exact same spot he and Geralt had first kissed.

“ _I love you, Jaskier. I always have and I always will. I was just too much of a coward too admit it.”_

A sharp pang rings through his chest, as he watches his best friend, the person she loves in her arms.

He looks away.

҉ ҉ ҉

He makes it up the stairs without either of them noticing, closing the door behind him softly. He eats in silence, Moon asleep under the bed. He knows he should feel happy for Yennefer – and part of him does – but a louder, more prominent and painful part of him screams for his love, longing to hold him one more time.

He changes into his nightwear, and pulls one of Geralt’s black shirts over his head. It’s the one he had taken from the wardrobe in their beach-side cottage, right after his love had disappeared. He’s been sleeping in it for these past few weeks, the familiar smell of fresh bread and the ocean helping him sleep at least a little, comforting him whenever his mind wanders.

He crawls into bed, staring out the window into the summer night, as he presses the cotton against his nose, just like he’s been doing every night, inhaling deeply.

His glass heart contracts painfully, cracks forming and deepening, as he realizes the scent is gone, and the shirt doesn’t smell like Geralt anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romance and angst! Great combination lmao. 
> 
> The song in the flashback is Dust To Dust by the Civil Wars.
> 
> Also! You can come talk to me or follow me or yell at me or stalk me or WHATEVER on tumblr.com @queen-squish. I also post edits and memes there, so swing by if you're in the neighbourhood! It's great fun.


	9. And Flew Like A Moth To You, Sunlight, Oh, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> Y'all can have some feral!Jaskier. As a treat. And a lot of angst yeehaw.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He lays in bed, staring into the moonless night, waiting for the sun to rise. He’s barely been able to sleep, with the absence of Geralt’s scent that used to linger on the shirt. It’s like he’s lost another piece of his Witcher, another part that’s gone from him now, too, leaving a gaping nothingness in its wake, a hole in his chest.

He would give anything to see his love again.

He tried looking at the vial on his nightstand, the necklace that holds the lock of hair Nilfgaard had sent them, trying to find some comfort in it, but he can’t stand the sight of it for long. One end of the lock is still speckled with blood, and it only serves as a reminder of the cruelty of Nilfgaard, a motivation for his imagination to come up with all kinds of scenarios, all the different ways in which Geralt could be tortured at this very moment.

His thoughts are too much, the images in his head too vivid, the noises he can hear – but aren’t really there – too loud. So, he looks out of the window again, into the moonless night, pulling the blankets around him more tightly, trying to imagine they’re Geralt’s arms, instead.

It’s been five days since they found his Witcher, and they’ve been training ever since. He’s been getting better and better at fighting, and he’s confident he will be able to help free his love, soon.

Soon.

The one word he clings to, when he feels his muscles getting sore while training. When he finds himself fidgeting with the glass necklace around his neck or the ring around his finger, unable to keep still, the nervousness curling around his spine, settling in his gut. When he finds himself lonely and tired and cold, all alone in this too-large bed, all of Geralt’s belongings strewn around the room where his Witcher has left them, a constant reminder of the fact that his love’s not there anymore. When he feels a warm breeze on his face and he remembers the twenty-odd years they spent together, and he feels the empty spot next to him where Geralt should’ve been.

Soon.

Soon, they’ll have made the plans to invade the Keep, to free Geralt. Soon, he’ll be able to see his Witcher again. Soon, he’ll hold his love close to his chest. Soon, he’ll know what they did to Geralt, and soon, he’ll be able to kill the people responsible.

Soon, he’ll have his revenge.

His fingers curl around the dagger he’s been keeping under his pillow, as the thought of Nilfgaardian blood spilling, drenching the dirt under his feet, makes a wave of quiet satisfaction wash over him.

He watches, now, as the sun rises, the blood-red dawn of a new day during which he’ll be able to prepare for slaughtering everyone standing between him and his love.

He blinks, once, twice, as he realizes how deranged he sounds, how thirsty for blood his thoughts are, and doubt settles into the pit of his stomach. He’s… changed, over the past few weeks. No longer as helpless as he used to be, no longer as optimistic and joyful each and every day. Will that part of him come back once all this is over? He doubts it. He won’t ever be the same, even after he’s gotten Geralt back, he knows – he’s been through too much.

_Will Geralt like this new version of me?_ What if he doesn’t? What if his love won’t accept the changes, won’t feel the same way about him anymore? What then?

What if he gets his love back but loses him all over again?

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep the thoughts away, but they’re persistent, pushing back at his mind, forcing him to face the truth of who he’s become, and what Geralt might think of him.

As long as his Witcher’s safe, he’ll sacrifice everything – even his own happiness, even the years he hoped to spend with his love. Even his own life.

He looks at the glass vial again, images of torture and blood and pain and agony forcing their way behind his eyelids, and he rubs at them, trying to push the visions away once more. He opens the drawer of the night stand, dropping the glass necklace in it. _If I can’t stand the sight of it, then it has to go._

Well, at least it’s not the only reminder of his love, he knows. He still has his engagement ring. He smiles at the memory of that spring day, under the old maple tree, the hills of Lyria and their future together stretching out in front of them. He reaches for the silver ring on his left hand, longing to feel the ridges of the waves carved into the metal, grounding him in here and now and in memories all the same – creating that blissful combination of hope and determination he’s been missing a lot lately.

His fingers meet skin and empty air, and his heart drops to his kneecaps. _It can’t be._ He holds up his left hand in the early morning light, his worst suspicions confirmed.

The ring is gone.

He bolts upright, throwing the tangled mess of blankets off himself, onto the floor. He holds them up, shakes them, dropping them down again when he doesn’t hear the dull thud of metal onto the wooden floor. Instead, he lifts up the pillows, shaking them slightly, throwing them away when they’re unbearably white and soft and devoid of his ring.

He tangles his fingers in his hair, unsure where to search next, a million different places running through his mind at a hundred miles an hour, and he wants to look under the bed, rummage through his laundry, and scour the garden at the same time, and he’s left at an impasse. Standing still there, in the familiar bedroom, hands in his hair, arms shaking uncontrollably, feet shifting over the wooden floor a bit as his mind tries to decide what to do next, while his eyes flit over every square inch of the room. _Think. Think, Jaskier._

Eventually, after a minute or so, he manages to loosen his grip on his hair, lowering his hands to rest against his face, taking in deep, shaky breaths. _Calm down, it’s fine, it’ll be fine._ Except it’s not.

His breath picks up again, mind racing over all the different places the ring could be. He drops to his knees, looking under the bed. Nothing. He pushes himself up a bit, tipping over one of the two mattresses of the bed. Nothing. The other one lands on the floor as well. Nothing.

He pushes his nightstand to the side. Nothing. Opens the drawers, emptying them on the floor, the glass vial with Geralt’s hair shattering, leaving him with small cuts in his feet and ankles. Nothing. The same with the other nightstand, and his hopes are lifted when metal hits the floor but it’s just Geralt’s dagger that he has been keeping under his pillow from time to time. Nothing.

He shoves everything off the surface of the desk, papers flying around the mess of the room. Nothing. He empties the closet, feeling in every pocket and every corner and dropping on his already bruised knees and looking under the wardrobe for good measure. Nothing. He rummages through Geralt’s weapon bag, even though it’s highly unlikely his ring is there but _you never know,_ and he cuts his arm on a blade, two, three, four times. Nothing.

He’s standing in the middle of the room, looking around, searching the mess on the floor, when the door opens. “What’s all this noise-“ Yennefer looks at him, then at the room, then back at him, wide-eyed. “What the hell, Jaskier?”

He shakes his head slightly, and he rubs at his face, only know realizing he’s crying as he feels dampness on his cheeks. “ **Gone, it’s gone.** ”

She frowns at him, slowly making her way across the room over to him, stepping around piles of clothes and paper and daggers. “What’s gone?” He can see Ciri and Triss behind her, looking concerned, gazing at the mess, then back at him with worry and fear in their eyes.

He claws at the wounds on his arms, barely aware of what he’s doing as he smears blood over his skin, irritating the edges of the cuts with his fingernails. He shakes his head again, eyes frantically looking around the room. The edges of his vision are blurred, and he feels slightly light-headed, as though his soul is two inches above where it usually is, as though his body isn’t his own, and he’s just a visitor.

Yennefer touches his hand slightly, pulling it away from where it’s been worsening the wounds on his arms, and he’s snapped back into his body. He shakes his head again, and again, and again. “ **My ring. It’s gone.** ” And where he had been floating earlier, he now feels like he’s crashing down, his hand shaking again, as he smears blood into his hair, over his face, scratching at his cheeks to feel something – _anything_ other than just blind panic.

Yennefer takes his wrist, forcing it back from his face. “Stop it, Jaskier. We’ll find it, okay? I’ll bandage those wounds up and then we’re going to search for that ring, alright? We’ll ask everyone to help. And then, maybe,” she looks around the mess that used to be his bedroom, “we’ll clean this up.”

He nods, still slightly shaking, but her hand, in a vice-like grip around his arm, grounds him. He nods again, and she sighs, dragging him to the door, stepping around clothes and knives and paper. “Come on, Jask. It’s going to be fine.”

҉ ҉ ҉

He lets her lead him out the door, past Ciri and Triss, who stare at him worried, scared. He doesn’t look at them, their concern filling him with shame. Yennefer pulls him down the stairs, into the kitchen, telling him to sit on the table, as she goes to look for the bandages, rummaging through the cupboards.

He swings his legs a little, staring at the blood that drips from the wounds, down his fingers, onto the stone floor. He blinks, and Yennefer is back, laying the last bandage over his left arm, his right already clean and bandaged. He frowns. _When did that happen?_

He looks up as he hears Triss’ voice. “-It’s not in the living room, either. I’m going to ask the others to search in the woods, and then I’ll help Ciri search the garden.” Yennefer looks at her, then nods, and Triss leaves again, throwing him one last sad, worried look.

Yen finishes wrapping the last bandage, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “We’ll find it, Jask. It’s going to be fine.”

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes a bit as tears well up again. He still can’t believe he’s been so stupid, so careless with something so dear to him. He can’t believe he didn’t even notice that it was gone before it was too late. _What would Geralt say if he knew I lost the ring?_

He clenches his jaw, trying and failing to keep his tears behind his eyelids, and he lowers his face into his hands, sobbing quietly, shame and anger curling around his neck, choking him from the inside out. He feels Yennefer’s hand on his knee, before the warmth of her skin disappears again. “I’ll go help the others. Jask, we _will_ find it.” Then, softer: “I promise.”

He hears her leave, the door to the kitchen quietly closing behind her. He’s alone, now, and he curls in on himself, pulling his legs up until his feet rest on the surface of the table, burying his face in his knees, hugging himself tightly.

Gods, how stupid he was. How careless. The ring is the last, true reminder of Geralt, of his love for his Witcher, and now it’s _gone._ He doesn’t even remember taking it off at any point, he doesn’t remember the feeling of the ring slipping from his finger, he doesn’t remember noticing the fact that it was gone, until half an hour ago.

Has it been half an hour? He’s not sure of the passing of time, these days. He’s not sure of anything, anymore.

He sits there, quietly crying, unable to move, for what feels like days – but is probably no more than mere hours. He can hear soft talking in the living room from time to time, and a shout in the woods, once in a while. He feels guilty, oh so terribly guilty. Not only about the fact that he’s managed to lose his ring, but also about the fact that all the others are out there – probably searching in every nook and cranny – trying to find it, while he’s sitting there in the kitchen, crying like the pathetic, little weasel he is-

A sharp slap on the back of his head pulls him out of his thoughts and he looks up, tear tracks on his cheeks, into Yennefer’s furious eyes. He hadn’t even heard the door open. “Stop thinking like that, Jask. Seriously, it is kind of stupid that you lost your ring, but you’re not a pathetic little weasel.”

He frowns at her. “ **You need to stop reading my thoughts.** ”

She scoffs. “And you need to stop putting yourself down so much.” He sighs, and rolls his eyes, but nods anyway, lowering his legs until they’re dangling half a foot above the floor again.

Moon walks into the kitchen, meowing loudly, her tail tickling his feet as she walks past, hopping onto the countertop, laying down on the windowsill – nearly knocking down a plant in the progress. Triss appears in the doorway, wringing her hands in front of her stomach, an apologetic look on her face, and he instinctively knows what she’s about to say – they haven’t found the ring.

She sighs deeply, and Yennefer walks over to her, taking one of her girlfriend’s hands in both of hers. They look at each other for a moment, and Jaskier can’t help but turn his face away, something sharp in the pit of his stomach. Triss sighs again, then speaks: “I’m sorry, Jaskier. We can’t find it anywhere.” He looks back at her, and she’s staring at the floor, unable to meet his eyes. He almost scoffs at her guilt – after all, _he_ lost his ring, not her.

He shakes his head, and she finally looks up. “ **It’s not your fault. Thank you, though. For helping.** ”

She smiles a bit, then nods, extracting her hand from Yennefer’s, leaving the kitchen. He rubs at his eyes, trying to push the tears away again, and he misses the feeling of the cool metal against his cheek. _Don’t know what you’ve got, until it’s gone._ He’s been forced to learn that lesson a lot, lately. First his voice, then Geralt, then the ring.

He lets his shoulders sag. Gods, he’s tired, so, so incredibly tired. He looks up, watching as the sun starts its decent from high in the sky, and he realizes he’s been sitting here for half a day, already. He pushes himself off the table, the stone floor cool under his bare feet, and walks past his best friend, who’s still standing there, looking at her hands.

He pats her on the shoulder. “ **Don’t feel guilty, Yenna. It’s my own fault, and you did whatever you could. Thank you.** ” She smiles back, though it doesn’t reach her eyes – he doubts his smile does, either, though. He turns, walking out of the kitchen, up the stairs.

His room isn’t a mess, anymore, he finds out; he vows to thank Yennefer for it, later. The clothes are back in the wardrobe – folded and clean, the papers are back on the desk in a neat pile, the weapons bag is closed and under the bed, the mattresses and sheets are back in place. And the ring is still gone.

He sighs, taking some clean clothes, going to the bathroom, closing the door behind him resolutely. He strips, dumping Geralt’s shirt in the laundry basket. No use in keeping it dirty– now that it doesn’t smell of his Witcher anymore.

He lowers himself in the steaming bath, once again vowing to thank Yenna for her excessive use of magic. The water soaks his bandages, reminding him of the fact that they’re there in the first place. He’ll have to ask someone to replace them, later. Or he could do it himself, how hard could it be?

He washes himself quickly, dunking his head under water a few times to clean the soap out of his hair – though, he always stays under a little too long, reveling in the warmth and silence, away from the coldness and noise of the outside world. He only comes up when the burn in his lungs becomes unbearable.

Afterwards, he sits in the water for hours, leaning his head against the side of the tub, watching the sun set outside, birds flitting from branch to branch, the leaves of the trees gently swaying in the soft summer breeze. _I wonder if Geralt is looking at the sunset._ He doubts it, but still, it doesn’t hurt to hope.

Eventually, he dries off, pulling on his clothes, when the last rays of sunlight barely manage to peek over the horizon.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s quiet downstairs, and Jaskier sits alone at the dinner table, struggling with the bandages around his arm. He eats some bread and leftover chicken from the evening before, while he somehow manages to undo the wet bandages on his left arm. The cloth snags on the barely healed cuts, making them reopen and start bleeding again, and he barely manages to press an old kitchen rag to them, before the blood starts dripping down the side of his arm.

He hears a sigh in the doorway, and looks up to find Vesemir there, for some reason. He frowns as the older Witcher seats himself opposite him, taking the cloth from Jaskier, pushing it to the wounds softly. “You know you could’ve just asked someone for help, right?”

Jaskier simply shrugs, as he doesn’t know how to explain this feeling of guilt in his stomach, this knowledge that all the others looked for his lost ring, while he sat in the kitchen, crying. And if he could somehow word the feeling, he still couldn’t tell Vesemir, as he needs both arms for sign language, and the Witcher is currently bandaging his left one.

So, he stays quiet, watching as Vesemir expertly ties off the bandages, motioning for Jaskier to give him his right arm. He starts taking the wet, bloodied dressings of, the Bard wincing a bit as the cloth pulls at the wounds. “Used to do a lot of bandaging, back in the day.” Vesemir smiles slightly, as he presses the kitchen rag to the cuts, reaching for the clean bandages with his other hand. “Geralt, especially. He was always pulling some weird moves during training, trying to outsmart the others. And failing, most of the time.”

Jaskier grins, and oh gods, how he wishes he had his voice back – or both arms available – so he could ask about Geralt as a teen. He can’t now, though, so he simply watches as the angry red welts on his arms get buried under the white cotton. Finally, Vesemir ties the bandages off, standing up.

He gives Jaskier a final pat on his shoulder. “Take care, and don’t worry about Geralt too much, alright?” Jaskier doesn’t mention the lines of worry on the Witcher’s face, that seemed to have deepened since they first met. “He may not be able to outsmart his brothers, but Nilfgaard doesn’t stand a chance against him.”

With that, Vesemir is gone, and Jaskier is alone in the kitchen once again. The words do nothing to lessen the pit in his stomach.

He gets up, dumping the dirty bandages in the trashcan, giving Moon a pat, earning him a sleepy meow from the windowsill where she’s been lying all afternoon. The house is dark and empty, he finds, when he walks out of the kitchen. _Wonder where Yennefer and Ciri are._ Maybe outside, he figures, with the other Witchers and Mages.

A knock sounds on the door, and he looks around, even though he knows no one will come open the door with him. He’s alone. He frowns, then hurries upstairs, grabbing the dagger from his nightstand, rushing down to the hall again afterwards. No new knock comes, even after he’s been staring at the door for a few minutes and he sighs. Whoever it was went away.

Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they’re still there.

Only one way to find out.

Slowly, tentatively, he turns the doorknob, knife ready to lash out as he opens the door. He only finds air and the smell of ozone – the smell of _magic._ He remembers the last time he opened the front door and smelled that. He remembers the lock of bloodied hair, and his stomach falls to his feet as he sees a small, wooden box on the doorstep, a letter on top of the lid.

He takes the items, closing the door behind him, and sits on the stairs, placing the box next to him, opening the letter first with shaking hands.

_“We know you are planning an attack. We advise against it, and we once again promise the safe return of the Witcher in exchange for Yennefer of Vengerberg and Cirilla of Cintra. If you do not meet our demands or try to attack, there will be consequences. This is your final warning._

_Nilfgaard.”_

He swallows hard, as he rereads the words over and over again. Eventually, he drops the letter to the floor, taking the box in his trembling fingers as ‘ _final warning’_ echoes through his mind. The lid opens easily, and the first thing he recognizes is Geralt’s engagement ring – silver, with the dark outline of a pine forest engraved in the metal.

It takes his mind a moment to register that the ring is still on Geralt’s finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *maniacal laughter*
> 
> Also you can come follow me or talk to me or yell at me or whatever on tumblr.com @queen-squish. I also post edits and memes there so swing by if you're in the neighbourhood! It's great fun I promise.


	10. Oh, Your Love Is Sunlight, Oh, Your Love Is Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> I got a lot of comments last chapter (love those) asking when they're going to go feral on Nilfgaard. This might actually be the chapter where they do. (JK, it's not. Y'all will have to be patient with me lmao)(But it will happen soon! Pinky promise)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment (I love comments so much so please do) if you feel like it!

He gasps, nearly dropping the box with the finger – _Geralt’s_ finger. His hands shake as he closes it and picks up the letter, legs trembling as he stands up and walks into the living room. It’s empty, and he remembers he’s alone in the cottage. _Well, fuck._

He contemplates leaving it in the living room and going to sleep, some erratic part of him hoping that he’ll wake up and find that this was all just one big dream. Yet, the slight sting on his arms from the wounds tell him otherwise.

So, he opens the door to the garden, startling a bit as grass touches his bare feet. One step at a time, he walks to the back gate. _One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other_ – his mind repeats over and over again, and he tries his best to ignore the urge to lay down in the grass and sob until he can’t anymore, or to dunk his head under water until it fills up his lungs, or to take Roach and go to the Weeping Keep and kill every fucking Nilfgaardian he can find there – or die trying.

He doesn’t, though, and keeps putting one foot in front of the other, again and again, walking across the garden in a daze, the box and the letter still in his hands. Roach whinnies when he walks past her stable, curiously sniffing at him for treats. He doesn’t stop, though, and keeps going, pushing open the back gate.

He walks into the forest, still feeling like a disembodied soul as he walks to the Mages’ tent camp. He can see everyone there: Ciri, Yenna, Triss, Tissaia, all the other Mages, and the Witchers. They’re laughing, and none of them have noticed him yet. He knows that once they will, once they find out what he’s holding, they won’t be laughing anymore.

He stops in his tracks, contemplates turning back and quietly walking away – he doesn’t want to do this to them, doesn’t want to hurt them with this knowledge that’s weighing down on him. _Especially Ciri_. His hands are still shaking, he notices.

He looks up, startling a bit as a voice calls out through the forest. “Care to join us, Jaskier, or are you just going to keep lurking in the shadows?” The others laugh a bit as they look at him, and he curses Yennefer for being so fucking observant all the time.

He tries to smiles back, but he feels his knees go weak, his hands shaking ever more, as his face contorts in a grimace of sorts. Yennefer frowns, as he wills himself to walk forward, stopping just outside of the circle of people around the campfire. “Hey, what do you have there?” Triss asks, head cocked to one side.

He swallows thickly, and Yennefer stands up, walking over to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Everything okay, Jask?”

He shakes his head, and she frowns. It’s quiet in the forest now, the laughter died down, the silence only broken by the crackling of the fire.

Yennefer takes the letter, unfolding it. She reads it out loud, and Jaskier can only watch as two dozen pairs of eyes grow wide, realizing who sent it. Everyone’s gaze is locked on the box as Yennefer takes it from his hands, opening the lid slowly. She closes her eyes, hand shaking slightly as she closes the box again. “Oh.”

It’s quiet again, the sort of silence one can only find at a graveyard, as she hands the box to the nearest Witcher – who happens to be Vesemir. He looks inside as well, jaw clenching as he looks up at Jaskier. “I assume that’s his ring?”

Jaskier nods, and Vesemir closes the box again. Lambert leans forwards, looking past his brother at the older Witcher. “What’s in there?”

Vesemir sighs, handing the box back to Yennefer, who gives it to Jaskier, for some reason – the weight heavy in his hands, though it’s nothing more than some wood and, well…

“A finger.” Vesemir says. “Supposedly Geralt’s.” Hushed whispers break out among the younger Mages, but Ciri’s voice pipes up above the murmur.

“They demanded my surrender.” She’s looking at Jaskier and Yennefer. “But you told me they didn’t in the first letter.” Jaskier can’t hide the guilt from his eyes, as the young girl looks between them, betrayal on her features. “Or did they?”

Yennefer looks at her feet, voice soft, barely more than a whisper, as she admits the secret she and Jaskier had promised to keep. “Yes, they did.”

Ciri is up in an instant. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Yennefer shakes her head. “To keep you safe, Ciri, please understand-“

“No! I deserve to know that Nilfgaard is still chasing after me! I deserve to know that they’re hurting my dad _because of me.”_ Her green eyes spit fire in the darkness, before she turns around, running off to the cottage.

It’s awfully quiet afterwards, and Jaskier turns around, box still in hand. He can’t take the oppressive heat of the campfire and the heaviness of everyone’s stares anymore, though he still feels two dozen pairs of eyes on his back as he walks after Ciri.

He can hear Yennefer following after a few seconds.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s quiet in the cottage, as he puts the box on the living room table, and Yennefer closes the door behind him. He looks at her. “ **We need to talk to Ciri.** ”

She nods, then sighs. “We do, but… I don’t know what to say to her. She’s right, we should’ve told her immediately but…”

He nods. “ **She would have immediately run off to surrender herself.** ”

Yennefer scoffs, one corner of her mouth pulling up for a split second. “Well, now she’s more likely to try.”

He smiles back, unconvincingly, he knows, and something sharp tugs at his frozen wasteland as he goes to twirl his ring around his finger but only finds air. He looks at the box. _Guess we both lost our ring, today._

He nods at Yennefer, and together they climb the stairs, stopping in front of Ciri’s bedroom door. Jaskier knocks, softly, and it feels like someone’s carving at his insides when he hears a muffled sob inside. Then: “Go away!” He knows Ciri is trying to keep herself together, but he can still hear the hurt in her voice.

“Ciri,” Yennefer calls through the door, “can we talk for a few minutes?”

“No!” Jaskier frowns, and he and Yennefer look at each other, unsure what to do.

His friend leans her forehead against the door. “Okay,” she says, voice soft, frailer than he’s ever heard it, “we’ll leave. Just know…” She closes her eyes, fingers curling against the wood of the door, and he can feel her hurt, even if she tries not to show it. “Just know we love you, okay?”

Ciri doesn’t reply, and Yennefer sighs, pushing away from the door, going to her own bedroom, her door closing softly behind her. Jaskier is still leaning against the wall next Ciri’s room, unsure of what to do. He wants to tell the girl he loves her as well, but can’t.

 _Gods, how I wish I still had my voice._ If he did, he could explain her their reasoning, he could tell her how badly his insides hurt at the thought of losing her, he could sing her a song, the one he wrote for her, a few weeks ago.

His eyes widen a bit, and he smiles, softly, as he realizes he indeed can’t sing it to her, but he did write it down – and the gap under the door is large enough for a sheet of paper to fit through.

He walks to his room, rifling through the sheets on his desk for the right one. Eventually, he finds it, and takes a pen, writing down ‘ _we love you’_ at the bottom of the page, under the lyrics. He walks into the hall, stopping in front of Ciri’s bedroom door. He lowers himself onto his knees, taking a deep breath, before sliding the paper under the door.

He listens intently, but doesn’t hear any movement from inside the chamber. He sighs, and gets up, walking into his own room, closing the door behind him. He leans against it, closing his eyes as he rests his head against the wood. He hadn’t intended on letting anyone see the lyrics, when he wrote the song, but he hopes they will be able to show Ciri how important she is to him.

_Girl, perfectly her, broken and hurt. / Soft and asleep in the morning gray._

He slides down the door, hugging his knees to his chest, as he looks out the window into the night. He knows Ciri’s hurting, that the war left invisible scars. He can see it when she thinks no one is looking. He can see it when she flinches away at unexpected noises. He can see it in the faraway look she sometimes gets in her eyes.

Geralt once told him about the girl he met in the woods, near the Battle of Sodden Hill. About the dirty, blonde hair and the torn clothes. About the scared expression on her face and the desperation with which she had clung to the Witcher. About the road to Kaer Morhen, how quiet and frightened she had been as they ran from the war. About how she had refused to let anyone touch the dirty and torn blue cape, no matter how much Geralt had begged her to let him wash it. About how she had gotten nightmares every single night.

Jaskier knows she still gets nightmares often.

_Shake off the night and don’t hide your face. / The sun lights the world with a single flame._

That one night, a few weeks ago, when he wrote the song, she had gotten another nightmare. Geralt and Yennefer weren’t home, then. Geralt had taken a contract a few towns over and would be away for a few days, while Yennefer was offering her services as a Mage for some extra coin in that other town.

Ciri had screamed him awake, and he’d had to push his hands against his ears at the sudden onslaught of noise and pain. She has her powers under control, thanks to the Witchers’ and Yennefer’s guidance, but the control disappears when she has a nightmare, Jaskier knows. _It’s not her fault._

He had gotten up, when she had finally stopped, knocking on her door quietly. She had given him a soft “yeah” and he had entered, sighing quietly when he saw her sitting up in her bed, sobbing into her knees.

He had sat down next to her, carefully taking her into his arms, letting her cry against his shirt, stroking her hair softly. She had cried for another half hour, before she had seemingly grown tired again, her sniffles subsiding, making way for quiet hiccups.

He had tried to let go of her, to let her be, but she had held onto his shirt, hands trembling. “Please don’t go.” Then, quieter. “I’m scared.”

He had nodded, a pang of hurt in his stomach, but he had lowered himself back on the bed, clutching her shaking form to his chest, shushing her until she fell asleep. Even then, when her hiccups had disappeared and she was breathing evenly again, he had still stroked her hair, looking out of the window, watching as dawn approached.

_I want you to see this. / I want you to see this._

Eventually, the first rays of light had fallen on her face, and she had blinked awake, smiling softly at the sunlight that lit up the room. He had noticed that it made her hair glow around her like a halo, and he couldn’t help but press a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“ **Sleep well?** ” He had asked, as she had pulled away, stretching out, joints popping.

She had nodded, then frowned. “Did you sleep?”

He had smiled at her. “ **Yes,** ” he had lied.

They had prepared breakfast together in the kitchen, and they had picked the first strawberries of spring in the garden afterwards. She had smiled, and laughed, and chattered, and he had simply stared at her, warmth in his chest, fondness in his eyes.

She had almost cried when Geralt and Yennefer returned that afternoon.

She hadn’t gotten a nightmare that night.

He hadn’t cared back then that she was Geralt’s Child Surprise, and not his. He still doesn’t care now. She’s like a daughter to him, and he wishes he would’ve told her sooner – would’ve let her know how much it hurts him to see her upset, and how happy it makes him to see her smile.

_Today and all of your days, I’ll wear your pain. / Heal what I can in your troubled mind._

He sits against the door now, leaning his head backwards, the wood slightly painful on his skin. Still, he’s waiting for Ciri to open her door, to maybe talk to him or Yennefer. She doesn’t, though, and he watches the moon rise outside his window.

He doesn’t regret not telling her Nilfgaard had demanded her surrender. He knows she would’ve immediately given herself up to help Geralt. He smiles. _Because she’s just noble like that._ Yes, he’s upset that she’s angry with him, but he’s also glad that she’s still here. He never would’ve forgiven himself if Ciri had left because of that letter. He never would’ve forgiven himself if something had happened to her.

No. Better her be angry with him, than dead. He hopes she can forgive him at some point. It’s okay if she doesn’t, though. As long as she is safe.

_Sometimes our bodies will hurt for some time. / And the beauty in that can be hard to find._

He can hear Yennefer pacing in her room next to his, and smiles at the wall. He knows she has trouble giving the girl her space, but he knows she tries, anyways. By the gods, does she try.

When he first met her, he hadn’t thought of Yennefer as the kind of person who’d make a good mom, and he had scoffed at the idea. Yet, over the months they had spent together, he had started to see the softer side of her. The side of her that rolled her eyes but healed his hand anyways when he had accidentally cut himself. The side of her that told him to be careful on the stairs. The side of her that cared for Moon, handling and talking to the cat as though she were a real child – he had often found her mid-conversation with the cat, and he had laughed as she had denied using a baby-voice.

She’s a good mom, he knows, and she takes better care of Ciri than he ever could, putting aside her own _nature_ at this very moment to give the girl the space she needs – even though it’s killing his friend on the inside.

_I want you to find it. / I want you to see this. / I want you to see._

He now sits there, watching the world outside darken before the first light of dawn breaks over the horizon. He gets up, and changes his clothes, deciding on a bright, yellow shirt Ciri had gotten him as a joke a few weeks ago, but that he secretly loved – simply because of the fact that she had gotten it for him.

He opens his door, walking down the stairs. He casts one, last look at her bedroom door, still shut firmly, before entering the kitchen. Moon stretches out on the counter, basking in the early sunlight, and she meows indignantly when he pushes her to the floor. He takes a bowl from the cupboard and all the ingredients he needs, measuring them by eye and throwing them together, mixing them.

He puts a pan on the fire, making perfect little rounds out of the batter with a spoon, flipping them after a few minutes. Three pancakes at a time, he manages to fill an entire plate with them.

It’s already warm outside, as he walks to the side of the garden, kneeling next to the strawberry bushes with a bowl in hand. He picks the reddest, fullest ones, as birds sing in the forest outside the garden. He can hear the hen cluck in the back of the yard, and Roach bristling as she bends over a patch of fresh grass just outside her stable.

He looks up as he hears the door to the cottage open, and smiles at Ciri, as she stares at him.

_So run, wake up and run, my little one. / I wanna tear down these walls that can’t hold you inside._

He continues picking strawberries, as Ciri sits next to him, helping after a minute or so of hesitation. They work in silence, and he steals a glance of her profile from time to time. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and there are bags under her eyes. He can see the remnants of crying – slightly puffy eyes, red cheeks, exhaustion on her features.

After they’re done with the strawberries, he moves to the blueberry bushes, once again picking the ripest ones, as Ciri helps him. She still says nothing and neither does he – she will talk when she’s ready, and pushing her too far too soon won’t do anyone any good.

He looks up and sees Yennefer in the doorway to the cottage, leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of her robe, pulled on haphazardly over her nightclothes. She looks like a mess. Her hair’s in a fray, he can see the dark circles under her eyes from here, and she’s not as pristinely dressed as she usually is. He understands, though. She probably hasn’t slept, either.

He smiles at her and she smiles back, before looking at Ciri again, who’s walked across the yard to Roach, picking an apple for the mare on her way to the stable. The girl smiles, and Jaskier feels hesitant hope flare up in his chest.

_I wanna rip out the cords and uncover your eyes. / We’ll make our escape in the dark of night. / I need you to see this._

He stands up, walking over to Yennefer as Ciri coos over Roach – the mare seemingly a little too pleased with the attention and the snacks. Still, he’s glad the girl is outside and smiling.

He leans against the wall next to his best friend. She looks like even more of a mess up close and he touches her arm lightly. “ **You look like shit. Are you okay?** ”

She scoffs. “Thanks, Jask. You look like hell yourself.” He crinkles his nose at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, at least you look better than I do, sure, whatever. I was just…”

“ **Worried?** ” She nods, hugging herself.

“I was so scared she was going to leave, anyways.” She shakes her head. “I’d never forgive myself if she got hurt.” He nods at that, and they watch as Ciri makes her way over to them.

He holds up the bowl with fruit, then tucks it back under his arm. “ **I’m going to wash these. And then we can have some pancakes.** ”

She snorts, and Jaskier walks past her through the living room, into the kitchen. He can hear Yennefer and Ciri quietly talking behind him, and figures it’s better than yelling. His eye is caught, however, by the living room table. He frowns. The box is gone. He wonders who took it away, and where it is now, but decides not to dwell on it too long. Maybe he’ll have his answer at some point, but not now.

He just hopes they’ll be able to get to Geralt, soon.

_Girl, you’ll see the world and you’ll come to learn / that falling in love is a strange work of art._

He’s just finished putting the strawberries and blueberries on the pancakes, when Ciri and Yennefer walk into the kitchen. His best friend leans against the doorway, as the girl hesitantly wraps her arms around his torso. “Thank you,” she whispers.

He cocks his head. “ **For what?** ”

She lets go, shrugging a bit. “For the song,” then, quieter, “and for being there for me.”

He smiles, blinking back tears, as he ruffles his hand through her hair. “ **I love you, you know that, right?** ” She nods. “ **And I didn’t tell you about what Nilfgaard said in the first letter to protect you. You’re noble and selfless and those are such good things, until you charge head-first into danger. I couldn’t let you do that.** ”

She nods again, taking place at the kitchen table as he puts the plate with pancakes down. “I know. I understand, now. And I’m sorry I reacted like that, yesterday.”

Yennefer smiles. “It’s understandable, though. You were upset, and you had every right to be. We kept secrets from you, but you’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

Ciri snorts as she shovels half a pancake into her mouth. “No, I’m not, I’m thirteen.”

Jaskier laughs, ruffling through her hair again, and she ducks away, smoothing her golden locks back down, grinning up at him. He puts his right hand into a fist, leaving his index and pinkie finger up, moving his hand towards Ciri. “ **I love you.** ”

She smiles up at him. “I love you too, dad.”

She continues eating like a starving man, and Jaskier can’t help but grin wildly. Yennefer rolls her eyes at them, but he can’t ignore the fondness in her smile.

_All of your battles will shape who you are. / And know that your scars are my favourite part._

_I want you to know this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter is Girl by SYML. It's a really cute and sweet song so I really recommend listening to it! (Personally, I prefer the acoustic version, but the normal one is very nice too!)
> 
> Also! You can come follow me or talk to me or yell at me for the torturously slow pacing on tumblr.com @queen-squish. Come swing by if you're in the neighbourhood!


	11. But It Is Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> Another Geralt POV! The dreaded Cutting-The-Finger-Off-Scene is coming up!! Also him losing his mind was surprisingly easy to write and I blame quarantine. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

A day, a week, a month, a year, a century, a minute. Geralt doesn’t know how long it’s been since his last meal, since Rhirthisech last stood guard, since he was taken from the beachside cottage. All he knows is that he is hungry, he is cold, he is ~~grieving~~ tired. All he knows is that there are three more angry, red stripes on his right shoulder, and he knows it fucking hurts every time the red-hot blade is pushed into his skin. ~~It fucking hurts seeing Jaskier again and again, knowing it’s not really him.~~

The Eel is still surprised when Geralt sees through the magic, as he still doesn’t know Jaskier ~~doesn’t~~ didn’t have his voice – besides, the bastard never really manages to get those blue eyes quite the right colour, or the smell of blueberries and cinnamon really convincing. He does get close, though, and each and every time, a painful pang shoots through Geralt at seeing his love again – even though it’s not really him. ~~His love is dead.~~

It’s a ~~dream nightmare dream nightmare~~ vision that could never be.

His head gets fuzzier with each passing hour, day, week, month, year, minute. He still can’t find a rhythm in the guards’ coming and going, in the order they stand guard, or when and why they change. Meals are fewer and farther in between. The building around him is oddly quiet. The spot of sunlight on the floor is still moving too fast or too slow ~~and sometimes backwards.~~

He feels like he’s losing his fucking mind.

He blinks, and the guard that was standing by the door is gone. There’s a familiar ruckus in the hallway and he sighs as he stands up. The door smashes against the wall.

Yennefer is there but not really there. Her eyes are purple instead of violet. She smells of lavender instead of lilac and gooseberries. Her heartbeat is too frantic. Her hands are cold.

Jaskier is there but not really there. His eyes are slightly too blue. He smells of butterscotch instead of cinnamon and blueberries. He doesn’t have a ring on his finger. His heartbeat is too steady. His hands are cold. He speaks.

Geralt sighs. “I know you’re not Jaskier. Jaskier’s dead.”

Yennefer is there but not really there and ~~she~~ he is the same guard as always, with grey eyes and an eternal sneer and hands that are gripping a torch as the Eel holds his knife in the flames.

Jaskier is there but not really there and he is the Eel, muddy brown eyes, course brown hair, delight and wonder in his eyes as he chatters on and on about them being _friends_ and _how smart you are, Witcher,_ as he pushes the hot metal into Geralt’s skin. It burns but he grits his teeth, his mind at the beachside cottage, waves crashing outside the door – the pain belongs to someone else.

Another thin, red line joins its brethren. That’s five of them, now. ~~One for each member of his family. Minus Jaskier.~~

~~Because Jaskier’s dead.~~

҉ ҉ ҉

A day, a week, a month, a year, a century, a minute.

He could have sworn he heard a gull cry in the distance. He could have sworn he heard waves smashing against rocks. He could have sworn he saw the blue sky and the blue sea and even bluer eyes. He could he could have sworn he tasted salt in the air. He could have sworn he saw Jaskier.

~~He’s losing his mind.~~

Another thin, red line joins its brethren. That’s six of them, now.

~~Jaskier’s still dead.~~

҉ ҉ ҉

A day, a week, a month, a year, a century, a minute.

Another meal, this time bread and water. He’s not hungry anymore, though his ribs stick out. He intently looks at the spot of sunlight, shining through the dusty window, falling on the stone floor. It’s three in the afternoon, he can see. Years of training, telling the time when he’s on the road, has left him with the near-perfect ability to know what hour it is, no matter the season.

~~He may have forgotten what Jaskier smells like after a day on the road.~~

~~It doesn’t matter, Jaskier’s dead.~~

He stares at the spot intently, barely blinking, barely looking away, brow furrowed in concentration. It’s three in the afternoon.

He blinks, then frowns. It’s two in the afternoon, suddenly.

҉ ҉ ҉

A day, a week, a month, a year, a century, a minute. Rhirthisech is back, and Geralt’s mind feels like he’s coming up for a breath of fresh air. The fog clears from his thoughts, and he looks at the sea-green eyes, giddy in anticipation as the boy stands next to the door, waiting for Geralt’s permission.

The Witcher cocks his head, listening intently until he can’t hear the footsteps or heartbeat of the other guard anymore. Then, he gives it another ten seconds, for good measure. Nothing happens, and he’s sure they’re alone, now.

He nods, and Rhirthisech leans his spear against the wall, dropping to the floor in front of Geralt, removing his helmet, freeing a mop of hair darker than his armour. He nearly bounces in his spot as he bites his lip in excitement.

Geralt pulls up his eyebrow. “So what do you want me to tell you about, today?”

The boy blinks, eyes flitting across the room, trying to choose between his options. “Ooh!” He exclaims, jumping up a bit, face triumphant with the fact that he has managed to make a choice. “The beach!”

Geralt smiles a little, then nods. “The beach is a… load of sand. Next to the ocean.”

Rhirthisech raises his hand, even though he’s the only other person there. “What’s an ocean?”

“It’s a lot of water. As far as the eye can reach.” His mind is in the beachside cottage. His mind is ankle-deep in warm water, holding hands with Jaskier.

~~Jaskier’s still dead.~~

The boy’s eyes grow wide. “Wow! That’s really handy! I bet people who live by the beach never get thirsty, then, like we do.”

Geralt cocks his head. “Like you do?”

The young guard nods. “Yeah, we had a lot of droughts, growing up. Being thirsty is not fun.”

Geralt nods, as well. “Fair enough.” He smiles. “You can’t drink the ocean, though.”

“Why not?”

“It’s salty, you’ll die of you drink too much of it.” Rhirthisech pouts a bit, crossing his arms in front of his chest ~~and it reminds him of Ciri, and now he’s hurting again.~~

The boy cocks his head. “Then why do so many people love it? I’ve heard of a lot of people who love the ocean.”

“Well, there’s waves, and it’s very deep. Lots of fish, that you can eat, and other, unpleasant stuff, that can eat you. Swimming is also really nice.”

“What causes the waves?”

“The moon. She causes the waves and the tides, which is when the water comes closer to the beach, then moves away, twice every day.”

“Now you’re just making stuff up.”

“I’m not.”

There are footsteps in the hall, and a heartbeat, and Geralt pushes at Rhirthisech. “Get up, there’s someone coming.”

The boy stumbles upright, grabbing his spear from the ground and pushing the helmet over his head. He’s barely in position when the door opens.

Another guard steps in, relieving Rhirthisech of duty. Too soon, Geralt knows. Though, when he looks at the light on the floor, he notices five hours have passed since the boy joined him. _Felt like mere minutes._

~~He’s los~~ ing his mind. Is he, though?

Surely, his mind can’t play tricks on him when he’s talking to someone, right? If it really has been five hours, they wouldn’t have been talking about the ocean, still. He would have noticed a change in Rhirthisech – noticed him changing position, noticed his hair being different, noticed something, _anything_ different.

But he didn’t.

The guard opposite him is looking at the wall, and doesn’t budge as Geralt stares daggers at the man. _Something fishy is going on._

~~He might not be losing his mind.~~

~~Jaskier is still dead, though. So it doesn’t matter.~~

҉ ҉ ҉

A day, a week, a month, a year, a century, a minute ~~earlier~~ later.

He gets another meal – cold broth, this time. He doesn’t eat. He’s not hungry.

~~His ribs stick out, his vision is fuzzy, he can’t think straight.~~

He’s not hungry.

He realizes there’s no guard standing at the door, and he waits for the familiar noises of battle outside his cell, watches in passive silence as the door bangs against the wall.

Not Yennefer. Not Jaskier. He knows it’s not them.

~~He’s not losing his mind. But he _is_.~~

Another thin, red line joins its brethren. That’s seven of them now.

~~He remembers Jaskier’s still dead, but the realization doesn’t ache as much anymore.~~

~~He doesn’t feel much anymore, anyway.~~

҉ ҉ ҉

_A day, a week, a month, a year, a century earlier._

_Jaskier was tugging at his hand, trying to get Geralt to walk further into the water. Waves broke behind the Bard, warm water sloshing around the Witcher’s ankles. He tried to resist, but the smile on his love’s face was infectious, and although his clothes would get wet, Geralt let Jaskier drag him further into the ocean._

_Jaskier let go of Geralt’s hand when the water reached their chests, spreading his arms out to welcome the oncoming wave. He got drenched from head to toe, sunlight fracturing on the droplets of water on his cheekbones, his hair clinging to his forehead._

_Geralt got drenched, too, but didn’t mind, as he took his love in his arms. “You look beautiful like this, do you know that?”_

_Jaskier grinned up at him, blue eyes against a blue sky and a blue sea and blue will always be Geralt’s favourite colour. “ **Geralt, my love, I always look beautiful.** ”_

_He barked out a laugh, throwing his head back, feeling the sunlight on his face for a second, before ducking down a bit to capture Jaskier’s lips with his own. “You’re way too cocky for your own good.” He smiled, and the act felt natural – more natural than it had ever felt before. There, with his love, in the ocean, he was floating away on the breeze, warmed by the sunlight, carefree, happy, loved._

_Jaskier pressed a small kiss to his chin. “ **What are you going to do? Punish me?** ”_

_Geralt grinned wildly. “Maybe I am.”_

_Jaskier’s smile faltered as Geralt hooked his leg around the Bard’s, tackling him into the warm water._

_~~That was a few days before he would lose his love.~~ _

_~~He’s glad he didn’t know, back then.~~ _

҉ ҉ ҉

A day, a week, a month, a year, a century, a minute later, and he wakes up in the damp, cold cell. Or falls asleep. He’s not sure anymore.

It’s five in the afternoon, he can see from the spot of sunlight on the floor. He sits up, turning the shackles around his wrists, chafing his skin. The pain grounds him in reality – he found out, earlier. How much earlier, he doesn’t know. Long enough for the skin on his wrists to be a violent red, on the point of breaking.

There’s no guard by the door, and he wonders if not-Jaskier and not-Yennefer are about to show up again, but he hears no clamor of battle in the hall, the door doesn’t bounce against the wall, there are still only seven angry, red stripes on his shoulder.

He stands up, stretching his neck out a bit. He can’t walk, since the chains around his legs barely allow any movement, but he can shuffle half a step towards the door. From here, he can see the blue sky behind the dirty window, he can see a field, maybe. There’s some fog, fracturing and capturing the rays of sunlight. There are shadows in the distance that might be mountains, but he’s not sure.

There are no birds in the sky. There are no trees, no bushes. Only an open, empty field, fog resting just above, a stream cutting through the short grass.

He hears a heartbeat, then footsteps, coming down the hallway, stopping right outside his door. He doesn’t sit down, doesn’t back away from the window. Whatever punishment they’ll give him for trying to find out where he is – he can take it. He’s not worried about the pain anymore.

~~He craves the pain. He’s tired of not feeling anything.~~

But it’s just Rhirthisech, the boy already putting his spear against the wall, taking off his helmet. He stands next to the Witcher, looking out of the window together. “So, what do you want me to tell you about, today?”

He half-turns to the boy, who has a pensive expression in his sea-green eyes, chewing on his lip slightly. “Can you tell me about home?”

Geralt cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

Rhirthisech shrugs. “I’ve just heard a lot of soldiers with families refer to their home. I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t think I have one.”

Geralt looks out of the window again, and his heart aches for the boy without a home. ~~It reminds him of himself, the way he used to be. Before he met Jaskier.~~ “Home is… where you feel safe. Loved. It can be a place, but it can also be others. Your family, your friends, your pets. Where you can let your guard down.”

Rhirthisech stays quiet, and Geralt takes it as a sign to continue, softer this time: “For me, my home is in the hills of Lyria. With Jaskier, the man that died, shortly before I was taken here.” Sea-green eyes look up at him, curious and sad. “But also with my daughter, Ciri, and my best friend, Yen. And my horse, Roach, and my cat, Moon.” He grins. “She was the loudest goddamn cat I’ve ever met in my life, but at least she wasn’t scared of me.” He frowns. “Isn’t,” he corrects himself.

~~He doesn’t think he’ll ever see his home again.~~

It’s quiet for a few moments, until Rhirthisech speaks again. His voice is barely more than a whisper, and hoarse with tears unshed. “That sounds lovely. I wish I had a home.”

Geralt lays a soft, tentative hand on the boy’s shoulder, and Rhirthisech startles a bit, then looks up with big, earnest eyes, sad beyond belief. “I wish you had a home, Rhirthisech.”

The boy smiles, and looks out of the window again. The fog has cleared up a little, and Geralt can definitely see mountains in the distance, their stone a dark outline against the blue sky. He traces a finger across the silhouette of the pine forest engraved into the silver ring on his left hand, and he’s lost in thought.

~~If he could, he would give Rhirthisech a home.~~

҉ ҉ ҉

A day, a week, a month, a year, a century, a minute later, and Rhirthisech is gone. Geralt’s looking at the spot of sunlight on the floor again. It’s eight in the morning.

He blinks. It’s seven in the morning.

He drinks the cold broth that is still sitting on the floor in front of him, even though he’s not hungry.

He’s not losing his mind.

҉ ҉ ҉

Five hours later, and the Eel visits him again.

He has a sneer on those thin lips, and looks more delighted than Geralt’s ever seen him.

He doesn’t scream, and barely flinches as the Eel cuts of his ring finger in one, fell swoop. He barely feels it when the wound is cauterized, he barely registers the bastard talking to him. Something about a final warning, and the hills of Lyria. He doesn’t pay attention to it anymore.

He’s too tired.

҉ ҉ ҉

A week or so later, and Rhirthisech is standing guard by the door again. Geralt’s just told him about mountains and dragons, before he had to stop, when he heard two other guards patrolling the hall outside his cell.

He’s gotten better at keeping track of the time, somehow. He’s figured out that, even if time seems to move backwards, sometimes, it’s never more than an hour. After that, he just had to keep track of the sunlight on his cell floor, not paying attention to how slow or fast it moved, only to the angle.

There’s a familiar ruckus in the hall, and he sighs. Another thin, red line is about to join its brethren. That will make eight, then.

Still, he frowns at the boy, as sea-green eyes flit across the room nervously, hands tightening around the spear. There had been no guard any of the other times the Eel had tried to play tricks on his mind. He shrugs. Maybe the bastard thinks it will give him more hope this time. It doesn’t.

He remains seated on the ground as the door swings open, hitting Rhirthisech square in the face. The boy doubles over, clutching his nose as blood streams down the front of his armour.

This time, the first person to walk in is not-Jaskier.

The Eel has really outdone himself, this time. The brown curls are disheveled and bloody, there are red splatters across the left side of his face. His arms are bandaged, and he’s holding a dagger and what appears to be a metal circle of sorts – a _chakram._ He smells of cinnamon and blueberries and blood and dust. His heartbeat is frantic, and it skips a beat when blue eyes that are exactly the right colour land on Geralt.

Though, his hair is too short, he’s still not wearing a ring, and Geralt expects him to open his mouth and start speaking any second, now. He stays on the floor, passive silence encompassing him as he looks at not-Jaskier lazily.

Not-Jaskier drops his weapons, and Geralt can see Rhirthisech behind the door, still clutching his nose, looking between the Witcher and the not-Bard questioningly. Geralt shrugs.

Not-Jaskier stumbles a few steps forward, warm, bloodied hands cradling Geralt’s face, before lowering again. Then they’re up again and they’re…

Signing something. Hands curled into balls, two fingers of each hand pinched, as if holding a small marble, arms crossed in front of his chest, right below a necklace with Geralt’s lost ring, the one that was on the finger the Eel cut off.

“ **Geralt, my love,** ” real-Jaskier says.

~~But Jaskier’s dead.~~

~~Right?~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S TIME IT'S TIME IT'S TIME IT'S TIME!!!
> 
> Also! You can find me on tumblr @queen-squish!


	12. All The Tales The Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> It's time!!!!!! (And that's all I have to say about that)  
> (feral jaskier? feral jaskier.)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it! (comments fuel me and my inspiration, just fyi)

It’s been a few days since Nilfgaard sent them the box, and they’re almost ready, almost done with the plan of attack.

He’s sitting in the living room with Ciri, Yen, Triss, Tissaia, and the Witchers, bent over the large map of the Weeping Keep, laid out on the table.

“So, they’ve tripled the number of soldiers since a few weeks ago, which means there are 150 to 200 armed men inside the Keep, against… what? Twenty-two of us?” Lambert asks.

Tissaia nods in confirmation, and the Witcher continues: “Not only that, but there is only one way into the Keep, which is heavily guarded, and in full view of the rest of the building – so there’s no way to get in unseen. Am I getting that right?”

Vesemir nods, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “And not only _that,_ ” Lambert says, “but we have no idea where exactly they’re keeping Geralt. And let’s not forget, Nilfgaard knows we’re coming _and_ they’re highly confident they’ll defeat us, _meaning_ they must have another trick up their sleeves because _they always do._ Did I cover everything?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, leaning back against Triss’ arm. “Yeah, you covered everything.”

“Right.” Lambert nods, eyes still trained on the map of the Keep, smiling. “So, when do we attack?”

Eskel groans in annoyance, and Ciri giggles.

Tissaia sighs. “In two days.” She leans forward, looking at the map of the area around the Weeping Keep, pinned to the wall. “The old books speak of a maze of tunnels under the Keep, leading deep into the mountain.” She points to a certain spot on the map, on the other side of the mountain the Keep had been built against. “We know there’s an entrance there. We’ll send Isheela and a few other Mages tomorrow to see if the tunnels do, in fact, lead to the Keep. If not, they will create one that does. One or two of us will join them, because they’re still relatively inexperienced.”

Triss raises her hand. “I’ll go with them, sure.”

Yennefer shoots a sideways glance at her girlfriend, worry apparent on her features. “I’ll go, as well, then.”

Tissaia shakes her head. “No, I can’t lose both of you when things go sideways. I’m sorry Yennefer, but you’re staying here.” Jaskier’s best friend rolls her violet eyes and clenches her jaw, annoyance on her face.

Jaskier leans forward. “ **I’ll go, then.** ”

Once again the Headmistress shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

He frowns. “ **Why not?** ”

“Because,” she sighs, rubbing her hand over her face, “you’re impulsive, and you care too much.” She closes her eyes when he tries to sign something, effectively blocking out his protest. “If you’re there, and you find out those tunnels _do_ lead to Geralt, you need to turn back – so we can regroup and attack the day after. I don’t trust that you won’t go barging into the Keep and try and kill everyone in your way.” She looks up again. “We have to stick to the plan.”

He leans back, rolling his eyes. “ **Fine.** ” Truth be told, it _does_ sound like something he might do, and he understands where she’s coming from. But that doesn’t mean he’s not disappointed. He already doesn’t feel like he’s contributing much to this rescue, really. He can’t draft plans of action, he can’t do magic, hell, he can’t even _speak._

_Thought I’d made my peace with that already –_ he thinks to himself, as he stares daggers at his hands, folded in his lap. _Maybe I haven’t._

Maybe it’s just that feeling of powerlessness that drives him to point out everything he can’t do.

He doesn’t have long to dwell on his emotions, though, as Eskel speaks up, drawing his attention: “I’ll go with Triss and the younger Mages.” Lambert looks at his brother, and Jaskier can almost swear that he sees worry in those amber eyes.

Tissaia nods. “That is arranged, then.” She leans forward again, eyes trained on the map of the Keep. “Let’s go through the plans of the day of the attack, one more time.”

Vesemir nods, pointing to the table, a little above where the map ends. “Three people approach through the tunnels, while” he points to the bottom of the map, to the bridge that leads up to the side of the mountain from the fields below “the others create a distraction, facing Nilfgaard head-on.” He scratches at the stubble on his chin, brow furrowed in concentration. “Once Geralt is free, everyone retreats.”

Triss shrugs. “Sounds like a pretty solid plan to me.”

Tissaia nods. “That’s because it is.” She stands up, clapping her hands once. “Right, it’s getting late. I suggest we all get a good night’s rest. We’ll need it.”

҉ ҉ ҉

The chakram slices through the bark of the tree easily, the blade glinting in the morning light, and he catches it in his gloved hand a few seconds later. The trees around him are covered in scratches, the bark peeled off in several places, from the weeks he’s been training.

He throws the weapon again, catching it a second later. He throws and catches it, again. And again. And again.

He can’t keep still, can’t sit inside, waiting for the Mages and Eskel to come back from the mountains. He wonders if they’ve found a way into the tunnels under the Keep. He wonders if Nilfgaard has caught them. He wonders if they’re alive.

He shakes his head, throwing and catching again and again, trying to keep his thoughts from wandering too far. He’s restless, and he knows he’s not going to be able to sleep tonight – no matter what happens today. He already barely managed to close his eyes last night.

Tomorrow – he repeats the word like a mantra in his head, saying it again and again as he continues to throw and catch, throw and catch. Tomorrow, he’ll know if Geralt is alive. Tomorrow, he’ll find out what Nilfgaard did to his love. Tomorrow, he’ll be able to get his revenge. Tomorrow, the blade of his weapon will slice through skin and flesh and bone – instead of bark.

Tomorrow, he’ll coat the dirt and stones in the blood of Nilfgaard.

҉ ҉ ҉

His blade sings as he drags the whetstone over the metal. Again and again and again and again. His eyes follow the movements of his hand as he sits on the floor of his bedroom. It’s long dark outside, the Mages and Eskel long returned, and he simply waits for the sign – for the moment Yennefer will knock on his door and tell him it’s time to leave.

In the meantime, his mind is empty as he sharpens his weapon. Eventually, it’s done, and he puts it down, taking the dagger from his nightstand. He cleans and sharpens that one as well.

He thought he would be nervous – even more than he has been the past week or so – but he’s not. He doesn’t feel, doesn’t think. His mind isn’t racing at a hundred miles per hour, his hands are steady and swift as they drag the stone over the edge of the blade. He feels calm, peaceful.

No matter the outcome, in twenty-four hours, all this will be over. He’ll make sure of that.

He gets up from the floor, putting the whetstone on his nightstand. He straps the dagger to his hip, his chakram snug between his shoulder blades. Yennefer had asked him if he needed armour, earlier that day, but he had denied her offer.

He’s not used to fighting in leather, and he’s more agile than strong. Armour would just restrict his movements and make him sluggish – something he definitely does not need while throwing his chakram.

He looks at himself in the mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door. His hair is shorter than usual – to make sure it doesn’t get in his eyes. He’s wearing a simple, white shirt, brown trousers, and leather boots. A leather strap crosses his chest, holding his chakram to his back. He has a dagger on his hip. His forearms are still wrapped in bandages, the cuts not healed yet. Geralt’s ring is resting against his chest, and not for the first – or last – time today, he wishes he hadn’t lost his own.

He looks different. Determined. Fearless. _Dangerous._ He wonders if Geralt will recognize him. He almost scoffs at the thought. _Of course_ his Witcher will recognize him. His hair is still the same colour, his features all still his, his eyes are still blue.

But his hair is shorter, his features are determined and angry, his eyes hold a dangerous glint.

He sighs, wiping his hand over his face. He can’t start doubting himself now, he can’t lose hope. _We’re so close. So close to getting him back._

A knock sounds at the door, and it opens before he can answer. Yennefer is clad in clothing similar to his – she isn’t used to armour, either – but the strap that crosses her chest is full of throwing daggers, their blades reflecting the light dangerously. Though, they’re not as dangerous as her hands, he knows.

The sky outside starts to blacken, the stars and moon disappearing slowly, the darkness before dawn. “It’s time,” she says.

҉ ҉ ҉

Fog curls around their legs as they stand in the field at the foot of the Amell mountains. He can see the white ghost of the Weeping Keep against the dark stone of the mountainside, a mile or so away. There’s a slight breeze, and he shivers from the feeling of droplets condensing against his skin, raising goose bumps along his shoulders and upper arms. From here, he can hear the wind howling through the ruins of the Keep. _No wonder they call it the Weeping Keep._

“Right, gather around, everyone!” He hears Vesemir half-whisper behind him. He turns around, walking over to the rest of the group.

When everyone’s there, the older Witcher points at him, Yennefer, and Eskel. “The three of you are going to teleport to the back of the mountain. You’re in charge of finding and securing Geralt.” He looks around the group, and Jaskier notices the stillness of the air, the determination in everyone’s eyes, so strong he can almost taste it on the back of his tongue. “The rest of us, we’ll portal straight to their front door. No mercy, no prisoners, but remember to retreat once we know Geralt is free.”

Tissaia smirks, and suddenly Jaskier understands why she’s the Headmistress – _she knows how dangerous she is and it’s frightening._ “Let’s wreak havoc on those Nilfgaardians.”

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s cold in the tunnel, and he raises his torch, the flames barely illuminating the darkness ahead. He looks back at Yennefer, as she kisses Triss goodbye, and he waits for the familiar pang at the pit of his stomach – the one he always gets when he misses Geralt. He doesn’t this time, though, and he figures it’s because he knows that, one way or another, he’ll see his love again soon.

He’ll make sure of that.

Triss waves them goodbye one last time. “Good luck,” she says, before she steps backwards, out of the tunnel, and through a portal. The smell of ozone prickles his nose as he turns back around, towards the darkness. Yennefer and Eskel are right beside him, each holding their own torch – still barely illuminating the shadows ahead.

“Right,” Yennefer says, “I assume we just have to go forward.”

Eskel nods, and together, they move away from the grey sky behind them, into the mountain.

҉ ҉ ҉

They’re walking for what seems like hours, but Eskel and Triss had assured them yesterday that it would only be a half hour walk to the entrance to the tunnels under the Keep. Still, time seems to move by torturously slowly, the only sounds the occasional drip of water and their footsteps. The world seems to narrow down to the twenty feet in front and behind them, to the edges of their torchlight.

Eventually, the tunnel slopes up a bit, and the roughly hewn out walls turn into a half-circle of large, grey bricks. Bits of it are chapped away, the grout in between the stones worn away over time.

From the shadows in front of them, a wall emerges, cutting off their path.

“You sure this is the right way?” Yennefer asks, even though there have been no side-tunnels or forks in the path, so far.

Eskel nods, and moves forward, laying his hand on the stones. He pushes, hard, and a door swings open, expertly blended in with the rest of the wall. “I’m sure.”

He puts his torch down in the tunnel, and Yennefer and Jaskier follow his example, each drawing their own weapons, before they move through the door. Eskel pushes it almost shut behind them, leaving it open slightly – for the way back.

Jaskier looks around. Torches line the grey, brick walls - these stones look a lot less worn down and old than those in the tunnel, the tiles under his feet smooth and clean. The hall stretches out to both sides, and ahead. _Great._

He clenches his jaw, as he hears the noise of battle, above him. They need to hurry up – make sure the others can retreat as soon as possible before any of them die.

“ **We need to split up,** ” he says, and Yennefer nods.

She points to Eskel. “ **You, to the left. I’ll go to the right, and you,** ” she points at Jaskier, “ **straight ahead.** ” She says it in sign language – they don’t know how many guards there are in these halls.

Eskel nods. “ **If one of us finds him, or needs help, alert the other two through the xenovox.** ”

Jaskier reaches for his hip, feeling the small box at his belt. Tissaia had given it to him before they portalled to the mountainside. Apparently it can be used to talk to others – which isn’t much help for him, a mute – or it can be used to alert others, even if you can’t speak – which is, of course, more fitting for him.

He takes a deep breath. “ **Good luck,** ” he signs to the others, and with that, he dives into the hallway opposite the door leading to the tunnel.

҉ ҉ ҉

The hallway is lined with doors. _Fuck._

He pushes open every single one – every cell empty and full of dust – making slow progress deeper into the Keep. After a while, he starts losing track of how many doors he’s opened, but he’s starting to lose hope bit by bit. He hasn’t seen any guards, and neither Yennefer, Eskel, or any of the others has used the xenovox. The noises of battle do grow louder, but only slightly.

_At least they haven’t stopped, altogether._

It’s cold in the hallway, and he feels his hands growing numb, even under the fingerless leather gloves he’s wearing as protection against his chakram. It’s quiet, and still, except for the sounds of the hinges creaking every time he opens a door, and his own footsteps when he half-jogs to the next one.

Then, suddenly, a shout in the distance, a hundred yards down the hall, as he looks into another cell. He looks up, and spots two guards, running towards him, swords drawn, the black sun of Nilfgaard on their armour.

He smiles, as he draws his chakram, reveling in its familiar weight in his palm. He starts running down the hallway as well, swinging his arm back, then forward, letting go of the weapon, watching as it whooshes through the cold, dry air of the Keep. _This is what he’s been waiting for._

It slices through skin, flesh, and bone easily, cutting open the neck of one of the guards with ease. His body falls to the ground, as the weapon lands back in Jaskier’s palm. He draws his dagger with his other hand, as the second guard is too close to kill with his chakram.

He ducks under the Nilfgaardian’s sword, as he slices at Jaskier with a shout. The Bard takes the outstretched arm of the man, as it passes over his head, and pushes it upwards, driving his dagger in the weak spot of the armour, into the guard’s armpit. Right through an artery.

He smiles, as he feels warm blood wash over his hand, a small spurt of it hitting his face as he withdraws his dagger, letting go of the guard’s arm.

The man drops to the floor, the dark pool under him growing as the life drains from his eyes. Jaskier looks at him for a second longer, then keeps walking, opening door after door to no avail.

Another guard in the distance, the chakram cuts clean through his neck before he can shout for help.

Jaskier walks past his body.

Door after door after door after door. Empty, dusty cell after empty, dusty cell.

Another two guards, and they’re disposed of in the same manner the first two were. More blood flows over Jaskier’s hand onto the smooth, grey stones of the hallway. He smiles, and walks past their bodies.

The sounds of battle are getting louder, and he knows he’s getting closer to the stairs that lead to the ground floor of the Keep. He’s running out of cells to open.

Door after door after door after door. He lets them bounce off the wall. He doesn’t care about being sneaky anymore.

Another guard, who drops to the floor noisily, as his armour hits the stones, neck open in a red grin. Jaskier opens another door. He hears a pained sound coming from behind the door, as he lets it smash against the wall.

And there, in the middle of the cell – chained to the walls and floor, only clad in worn, dirty pants, ribs sticking out, seven angry, red lines in his shoulder, white hair dirty and unkempt – is Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me on tumblr @queen-squish!


	13. Told Before And Told Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> It's time! That's all I have to say on that.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it! (I love comments please leave comments)

He stands there for a second, blinking, not sure if his eyes are deceiving him, as Geralt’s name repeats in his head like a prayer. His Witcher simply sits there, looking at him through half-lidded eyes, almost lazily, barely reacting to his presence. His love doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, just remains on the stone floor, on his knees. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is even real, or if he’s just a figment of his desperate imagination.

 _Only one way to find out._ He drops his weapons on the floor unceremoniously, stumbling forward a few steps. His knees crack painfully as his legs give out from underneath him, cradling his Witcher’s face in his trembling hands. _He’s real, oh gods, he’s real._ He nearly sobs at the realization.

He finally gets a reaction from Geralt, and he sighs in relief at the slightly furrowed brow, the confusion in the sunflower eyes. He drops his hands from his love’s face, though it pains him so – they have to get out of here.

All those weeks of imagining what he would do if he ever saw Geralt again, what he would say, what would happen, how his love would react to him – and suddenly, now that the moment is here, his mind comes up blank. _Let’s start with his name-sign._ “ **Geralt, my love.** ”

This draws another reaction from his Witcher, and the Bard nearly cries as sunshine eyes widen in recognition. “Jaskier?”

He smiles, then sobs, as he rests his forehead against Geralt’s, nodding slightly. _It’s me. It’s me. I’m here, love._

A sound behind him draws his attention, and he whips his head around. He sees a guard with the black armour of Nilfgaard, standing behind him, clutching at his bleeding nose. Jaskier is up in an instant, snatching his weapons from the ground.

The guard swallows thickly when Jaskier’s dagger meets the soft skin of his neck. Sea-green eyes stare at him, fearful, scared, resigned – but all Jaskier can see is the memory of Geralt’s ribs sticking out too far, the thin, red lines on his love’s shoulder, the tiredness in those sunflower eyes. A haze of red clouds his vision, and he presses the blade deeper into the skin.

He’s about to cut the guard’s throat, when he hears Geralt’s voice behind him, surprisingly strong: “Jaskier, wait.”

He stills, a single drop of blood dripping from under the blade, and he turns around. His Witcher is standing now, hand reaching forward slightly, concern in his amber eyes. Jaskier frowns, the question unspoken – though he knows Geralt will understand. _Why?_

His love hesitates, hand lowering to rest by his side, and Jaskier can see a glimpse of red, irritates skin as the cuffs shift on his Witcher’s wrists. “He’s just a kid,” Geralt says.

Jaskier slightly lowers his dagger, throwing the guard one last, warning look – _move and you die –_ and the man nods quickly, desperate to stay alive. Jaskier turns around, sheathing his dagger. “ **Then what do you propose we do with him?** ”

His love shrugs, hesitates for a second, not because he’s unsure of what to say, but because he thinks Jaskier might not approve of it – the Bard can see from the determination yet slight worry and fear in those amber eyes. _Does he not trust me?_ He tries to pretend it doesn’t hurt him so.

Geralt chews on his lip for a second, before looking Jaskier in the eyes. “Take him with us.”

Jaskier frowns, his nose scrunching in confusion, as he looks back at the guard for a second. Yes, Geralt was right, the boy is young, but he’s also a _Nilfgaardian,_ and one of his love’s captors. He turns back to his Witcher. “ **Have you lost your mind? Geralt, we can’t trust him. What if he stabs us in the back?** ” He hesitates, for a second. “ **I can’t lose you again.** ”

Geralt nods, then reaches forward, softly taking Jaskier’s wrist in his hand, and a shiver runs down the Bard’s spine at the contact. “He won’t, I promise. I’ll explain later, but know that I trust him.”

Jaskier sighs, looking into those amber eyes, searching for some sign that his love is being forced to say this, somehow, but all he can see is sincerity, and determination. Eventually, he nods, and Geralt lets go of his wrist.

Jaskier turns back to the boy. “ **If you even think about trying something, I will kill you, understood?** ”

The guard looks between them, sea-green eyes nervous. “What did he say?”

Jaskier hears his love sigh behind him. “He said he won’t kill you, and you’re welcome to come with us if you want to.” The Bard snorts. _Not what he said at all._

Sea-green eyes turn to Geralt, then back to Jaskier. Softly, quietly, tears unshed in the back of the boy’s throat, he whispers: “Thank you.”

The Bard sighs, then turns around. “ **We need to get these chains off you.** ” He reaches for the xenovox, pressing a small button on the side of it. “ **I’ll wait out in the hall for Yennefer and Eskel.** ”

He walks out of the cell, half looking down the corridor, half looking at Geralt through the open door. “Eskel is here, too?” He hears his love ask, and he nods.

“ **And so are Lambert, Vesemir, and half of Aretuza.** ” Geralt looks at him in wonder, as if he can’t believe all those people are here for the sole purpose of freeing him. Jaskier understands, though. His love must’ve thought he had been left to his own devices, after spending weeks in that cold cell without any sign of the others.

Still, they’re here now, and that’s what matters.

He reaches for his chakram as he hears footsteps running down the hall, but lowers his arm again as Eskel and Yennefer come skidding around the corner. He grins, as they come to a halt in front of him.

“Did you find him?” Eskel asks, amber eyes searching the hall full of open doors, as if Geralt might come walking out of one any second now. Jaskier can only smile, and nod, pointing to the cell to his left.

The other two are gone in an instant, and he can hear Yennefer mutter “thank the fucking gods,” as she gives his Witcher a tight hug. She lays her hand on one of the cuffs around Geralt’s wrist, brow furrowed in concentration, as Eskel gives his brother a slap on the shoulder so hard it would’ve floored Jaskier.

The cuff around Geralt’s wrist snaps in two, revealing red, raw skin underneath. The other cuffs follow suit, and after a few short minutes, his Witcher has been freed, rubbing the irritated skin experimentally.

“Who’s he?” Jaskier looks up at Eskel’s sharp voice, and he sees the Witcher looking at the young guard.

Geralt lays his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “A friend, he’s coming with us.”

The boy – Rhirthisech, Jaskier remembers – gives a small, awkward wave, fear evident in those sea-green eyes. “Hi…”

Yennefer rolls her eyes slightly, but shrugs. “Fine. He knows we’ll kill him if he tries anything.” She’s turned away from the young guard, but it’s clear that her words are directed at him. “We have to go, though.”

Jaskier nods, and takes Geralt’s hand in his, softly, gently, no longer calloused fingers curling around his uncertainly.

“Small problem, though,” Eskel says, and Jaskier cocks his head. “I noticed, when I walked past the door to the tunnels, that it has been shut. Guess one of the guards noticed.” He shrugs, trying to keep his tone light, but Jaskier can see the frustration in his amber eyes, the tension in his muscles – Geralt’s shoulders are always set the same way when he’s angry but tries not to show it.

“So we have to take the front entrance?” Yennefer’s voice sounds frustrated as well. She shakes her head slightly, rubbing at her eyes. “Fine, guess we have to fight our way out of this place.”

“Can’t…” they all look at the young guard, who seems to shrink away from their eyes “can’t you just make a portal? You’re a Mage, right?”

She sighs, then shakes her head. “No. This place is guarded with spells. And if I could, I would’ve just portalled into this cell, taken Geralt, and left before anyone noticed, don’t you think?”

The boy nods, face flush with embarrassment, and – even though the guard is Nilfgaardian – Jaskier feels a bit bad for him.

He shrugs the thought away, and walks into the hall, the rest following suit. A shout catches his attention, and he takes his chakram from where it’s resting between his shoulder blades. Before the Nilfgaardian guard in the hall can call for help, he falls to the ground, throat cut. Geralt looks at him weirdly, as Jaskier puts the weapon back. “When’d you learn how to do that?”

Jaskier shrugs. “ **You’ve been away for a while.** ” He doesn’t dare look his love in the eyes, scared of what he might see – so he sets down the hall, towards the staircase that leads to the Keep’s ground floor.

҉ ҉ ҉

The sounds of battle grow louder with each step, and eventually, they’re standing at the bottom of a narrow, winding stair, hewn out in the bricks. Jaskier takes his weapons, handing the dagger to Geralt, who takes it without a word.

He lets out a deep sigh, as he realizes that if someone were to come down the stairs while they were going up, they would be at a serious disadvantage. He shoots a prayer to whichever god will listen that everyone makes it out alive, and starts the ascent.

The ruckus upstairs grows louder and louder with each step, but it’s still dulled, as though the battle is somewhere else in the Keep. Jaskier thanks whichever god listened when he reaches the top of the stairs, stepping into a small room, without meeting any guards.

The rest files in behind him, pushing together in the small space, and Jaskier feels Geralt’s broad chest behind him. Yennefer puts her hand on the doorknob that leads… well, wherever it leads, Jaskier can’t remember the maps of the Keep. “Now, we don’t know what we’re going to find out there but…” she half-turns to the crowded room “I just want to say it’s an honour to charge into battle with you guys.”

With that, she opens the door. The sounds of fighting get slightly louder, but they’re still dulled, as they walk into a hallway. The intricately decorated ceiling is high above them, rusted chandeliers swinging from old chains dangerously. There are empty windows to his left, and he can see stained glass still clinging to the stone in small shards. There’s a broken mosaic of forests, mountains and rivers on the floor, but the colours are dull and dusty. This place used to be beautiful, he knows.

Not anymore, though.

The walk forward, down the hall, and the noises of battle grow louder and louder as they approach a doorway. He can now hear that the fight is taking place in a hall of sorts, as the sounds reverberate and echo a bit.

The wall to his left has crumbled away at the end of the hall, and he presses himself to the right wall, eager to not fall two hundred feet down the mountainside. Still, they reach the doorway without any accidents or run-ins, and Yenna looks around the corner. “They need our help.”

Eskel scoffs. “Let’s go, then.”

The Mage turns back, though, violet eyes landing behind Jaskier, and he turns around as well, looking at the young guard. He had forgotten the boy was still there in the first place. “I need to know he’s not going to stab us in the back,” she says.

Rhirthisech looks nervous, sea-green eyes flitting around the hall. “I’m not! I’m not, I hate Nilfgaard. They ruined my life.”

Yennefer purses her lips, then nods. “You’re lucky I can read minds, boy.” She turns back around. “Right, let’s go.”

She ducks out of the hallway, Eskel following suit behind her. Jaskier turns to Geralt, pressing a quick kiss to his love’s lips. “ **I love you, please don’t die.** ”

His Witcher smiles. “Right back at you.”

Jaskier smiles back, then turns around, walking through the doorway before he can change his mind.

҉ ҉ ҉

He has to immediately dodge to his left to avoid being speared on a Nilfgaardian sword. He jumps away again, but the soldier already drops to the floor, one of Yennefer’s dagger sticking out of the side of his head. Jaskier doesn’t have time to sign a ‘thank you’ at her before she has to turn to fight another soldier, approaching her from behind. After that, she disappears into the chaos.

Jaskier pulls the blade from the body’s skull, wiping it on his shirt, before moving further into the hall. It’s a throne room, he sees, an empty dais at the far end, under a large, stained-glass window. The tiles are slick with blood, and he can see several groups of people fighting. He looks around for anyone who might need his help.

He hears an ear-shattering scream, and he clutches his ears as he watches Ciri flooring three soldiers, taking another one down with her sling. _She seems to be handling everything just fine._

A group of soldiers approach him, about ten of them. _Too many for just him._ He looks around, but everyone is too busy, too caught up in their own fight. He manages to take two soldiers down with his chakram, the first time he throws his weapon, and another one the second time.

He ducks under a sword, and notices a soldier to his left dropping on the floor – a Nilfgaardian spear sticking from his chest. Another one to his right doesn’t survive his encounter with Geralt. Jaskier can see the fear in the eyes of the soldier in front of him. The man swings his sword, nonetheless, a futile attempt to cut off the Bard’s head, and the soldier ends up with the dagger in the side of his neck.

Another one appears behind the one Jaskier’s just killed as the body drops to the floor. He ducks to the side, then down, slicing his chakram through the weak spot in the armour of the soldier, between his thigh and hip, severing the major artery that runs shallowly under the thin skin.

The man falls to the ground, and Jaskier stabs him through the eye for good measure. He looks up, seeing another soldier approaching Rhirthisech from behind, a dozen or so yards away. The boy is caught up in a sword-to-sword battle with another Nilfgaardian soldier, not aware of the danger that he’s in.

Jaskier’s body reacts before his mind can, and he throws his chakram, severing the tendons on the back of the man’s ankles. The soldier falls down, shouting in surprise, and Rhirthisech steps to the side, one eye on the soldier he’s still fighting, another on the man on the ground. _He’ll manage,_ Jaskier decides as the boy stabs one of them in the neck, before swiftly disposing of the other soldier.

Jaskier sees another man approaching from his right, and he quickly throws his chakram again, killing the soldier before he’s even within fifteen feet of the Bard. He looks behind him, and sees Geralt, staring at him, something he can’t identify in those sunflower eyes.

He smiles hesitantly, then turns back to the rest of the throne room. There aren’t many Nilfgaardian soldier’s left, and he feels hope swelling in his chest.

They’ll make it out of this alive and well.

That’s when everything goes to shit.

He accidentally lets Yenna’s dagger slip out of his blood-coated fingers, and it falls to the ground. It’s halfway to the floor when everything seems to freeze, time itself coming to a screeching halt. He can move, but barely, as if the air around him has turned into thick syrup.

His eyes are the only thing that can move normally, and they flit around the room, unsure what to do, trying to find the cause of… whatever the fuck is going on. Everyone else is experiencing the same thing, he notices – whatever was left of the battle almost completely frozen as time ticks by antagonistically slowly. 

Then, a clap, and another, and another. “Well done, everyone!” His attention is drawn by a thin man who walks up the empty dais at the far end of the throne room. “I knew you were planning _something,_ but I have to say, I did not expect you to actually be able to free the Witcher!” He smiles, and even from where he’s standing across the hall, Jaskier can see a dangerous glint in the man’s eyes.

“I truly admire your efforts,” the man continues, “so I hope you forgive me when I say I can’t let this happen.” Jaskier tries to move again, fear coiling in the pit of his stomach, as he pushes against the air, making slow progress. The dagger he dropped still hasn’t reached the ground, and it’s only a little over an inch lower than it was before.

It makes sense, suddenly. He realizes now how the Nilfgaardians were able to capture his Witcher without waking Jaskier up, without Geralt killing each and every one of them. They’re able to control time, at least to some extent, basically rendering their enemies powerless. _No wonder they’re so fucking confident._

The doors on either side of the dais open, and a hundred or so more soldiers file into the throne room. The man smirks – they all know he has won, that this is the end. Jaskier wishes he could’ve said goodbye to Geralt one last time, that he could’ve held Ciri once more, that he could’ve thanked Yenna for everything, before it was too late.

But it’s too late now.

He watches, as the soldiers stand still at the front of the throne room, waiting for a sign from the brown-haired man that they can kill Jaskier and his allies – his _family._

Movement catches his eyes, and he looks to the left, watching as Ciri slowly turns her sling in the air – still more slowly than usually, but still faster than should be possible.

Around and around and around the sling goes, speeding up and up until it’s at its usual speed, and Jaskier watches in wonder as his daughter seems to break from the spell. Then, she flings her arms forward, the metal ball flying across the throne room, too quickly to follow.

The man on the dais cries out in surprise, before the projectile hits him between his eyes, and he falls to the ground. Time starts moving again.

All hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger, babey!!!!
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr @queen-squish!
> 
> (also little sidenote: I was thinking about making a playlist for this fic, so let me know if that's something you'd like to see/hear!)


	14. A Soul That's Born In Cold And Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!
> 
> A little update on the course of this fic: this will be the last chapter I will be posting for a while. At least a week, maybe more. (Don't fear! I have already 6 more chapters written and a few more planned, I just won't be posting them yet.)
> 
> You see, just a few days ago, shortly after posting the previous chapter of this fic, I had an emotional breakdown. Yes, I know, that sounds bad. It was. I'm alright, for now. But it did get me thinking: why?  
> Eventually, I came to 2 conclusions:
> 
> 1) I put too much pressure on myself. I update every 3 days, while also working on another fic at the moment (that I'm very excited about, by the way), which doesn't sound unreasonable, until you remember that every chapter takes me about 4-5 hours to write (first draft, second draft, edit, edit after beta, post. And that's only 2500 words.). Now, that's a lot of time, especially considering I'm also in medical school and have a side job. Not only that, but maybe you've heard, but a pandemic is going on - which already messes with my mental health and energy levels A LOT.  
> So, basically, I was so eager to please all y'all that I was burning myself out. No bueno, of course.  
> Which brings me to:
> 
> 2) I was eager to please but I felt like I wasn't pleasing you. Now, I hate to involve you guys in this, because it is very much my mental instability and my emotional breakdown that's the root of the problem. However, I love comments as much as the next writer. They make me feel good and let me know that I'm doing a good job at writing - or at least a decent one, and I am, as they say, a slut for validation. But that does mean that vice versa is true as well. A distinct lack of comments make me feel like I'm a shit writer.  
> Of course, you guys are in no way obligated to comment, and I appreciate everyone who does, but about 6 comments for every 5 hours of work does not make me feel like I'm doing a good job, and does not make me feel that what I'm doing is worthwile (ie: it makes me feel like not a lot of people care). Which circles back to my already not amazing mental health and lack of confidence and self-esteem.
> 
> So a little TL;DR:  
> 1) I pushed myself too far.  
> 2) I started writing fanfiction because I love writing, but I continued writing fanfiction because I love the feedback. If there is little to no feedback, I feel like there's little to nothing left to write for.
> 
> I will upload the rest of what I've written after the break, but I don't know how long it will last, I don't know how frequently I'll be uploading afterwards, I don't know if I'll be replying to your comments in the meantime (if there be any). I just don't know.  
> (sidenote: If you have questions about this don't hesitate to ask them, of course.)
> 
> So, without further ado, as always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy. Hopefully until soon.

Jaskier falls down, limbs going limp without the pressure of the slowing of time holding him up. He scrambles to his feet, immediately throwing his chakram, cutting the necks of two soldiers advancing in on him. Their bodies fall down, and Jaskier has to move to the side to avoid a sword to the neck. He throws his dagger into the culprit’s head, pulling it back out before the man has the chance to fully fall to the floor.

He throws his chakram again, cutting off the arm of a soldier who’s about to stab Triss in the back. The man cries out and the Mage turns around, stabbing him in the eye. Jaskier doesn’t have time to dwell on it, as another soldier approaches him. He stabs at the Bard, and Jaskier slices at the wrist of the soldier with his chakram, severing his artery, before he moves to the side, away from the blade. The man stumbles forward, and Jaskier finishes the job by stabbing him in the side of the neck.

He turns around, and lifts up his chakram as a spear lunges at him. He manages to capture the neck of the weapon in the metal circle, yanking it down, and stabbing the soldier in the top of the head as he stumbles forward.

He has some trouble removing the spear from his chakram, desperately yanking at the wood, and by the time he turns around, yet another soldier advances on him. It’s almost too late to move, but Jaskier tries rolling to the side anyways from where he’s kneeling on the floor. The blade meets his upper arm, and he cringes in pain – though it’s barely more than a superficial wound. He raises his dagger, but the man is already falling on the floor, one of Yennefer’s knives stuck between his eyes.

Jaskier takes it from the body, tossing it back to his friend, before she disappears back into the chaos.

He clutches his ears as one of Ciri’s deafening screams echoes around the throne room – this one clearly a lot less contained than the previous one was. The chaos of the battle dies down for a split second, before picking back up. Jaskier moves forward, and has to jump over bodies bearing the black sun of Nilfgaard. He stabs another soldier in the back of the neck, as the man tries to attack Geralt from behind.

His Witcher turns around, blade almost kissing Jaskier’s neck before stopping abruptly. “Oh, it’s you,” he sighs. He throws the dagger past Jaskier’s ear, taking down a soldier behind the Bard.

“ **Everything good so far?** ” Jaskier asks, worry flaring up as he remembers the weeks-long imprisonment his Witcher just escaped from, and his eye catches on the way his love’s ribs stick out.

Geralt walks past him, nodding curtly, retrieving the dagger from the body. “You?”

Jaskier nods, then swivels around, as he hears the clanging of armour behind him. It’s a small group of soldiers, about ten of them. Two of them drop to the ground, Jaskier’s chakram flying back into his hand, and another falls with Geralt’s dagger sticking from between his eyes.

Jaskier ducks to avoid a sword in the neck, slicing at the weak spot in the man’s armour as the arm passes above him, severing the artery in the soldier’s armpit. The man falls, caught off-balance, but can’t get up before the loss of blood makes him pass out, then die.

Jaskier hears the distinct _snap_ of someone’s neck breaking behind him, and knows it’s Geralt’s work, as the soldiers in front of him take half a step back, fear in their eyes.

He’s starting to grow tired, can feel the fatigue pulling at his limbs. He keeps going, though, memories presenting themselves to him – memories of the panic he felt when he first discovered Geralt missing, of having to spend weeks without his love, of being scared and alone and worried for his Witcher’s safety and life, of receiving that box with the finger, of seeing his love again for the first time in weeks, malnourished, tired, tortured, broken. He remembers, and a cloud of red covers his vision, rage fuelling him from the inside out.

He stabs another soldier through the eye. He swivels to his right, and bats an oncoming sword away with his dagger, driving his chakram through the culprit’s neck, pulling it out again with a wet sucking noise, blood splattering on his face.

He turns back around, registers the fear in another soldier’s eyes, _revels_ in it. _Let them feel the fear he’s felt for so long._ The man makes a futile attempt at an attack, and Jaskier nearly laughs – _does_ laugh, high and cruel – at the soldier’s incompetence. He moves away from the blade, watching as his dagger sinks into the man’s neck, a river of blood flowing behind his blade as he pulls it out.

The body drops to the ground, and Jaskier is face to face with another soldier, the last one of the small group that tried to attack him. Another set of fearful eyes, another wave of satisfaction washing over the Bard. He moves to the side as the man tries to lunge at him, and he drives his dagger into the soldier’s gut, the man falling against his shoulder, dropping his sword on the blood-slicked stones. Jaskier grips the handle of his dagger tightly, clenching his teeth as he twists the blade inside the man’s stomach, and the soldier gasps his final breath, before the Bard pulls his arm back, pushing the man away with his other one.

The soldier falls to the ground, dead.

Jaskier swivels around, his blade already kissing the neck of another Nilfgaardian soldier, before he recognizes sea-green eyes. He stops, lowering his dagger, as he nods at Rhirthisech, who looks at him fearfully.

He glances around the throne room. Most Nilfgaardian soldiers have fallen by now, the stone floor littered with bodies. Those who are not dead will be soon, he knows. The tiles are slick with blood.

His hand twitches around his chakram, and a red cloud still blurs his vision. The memories of hurt and panic and fear and worry and Geralt’s ribs sticking out way too far still hover on the edge of his mind. He wants to move forwards, wants to find another target, feel blood running over his hand, see the life draining from a soldier’s eyes before he lets the body drop to the floor – but there’s no one left to fight, no one left to kill.

So he’s left standing there, weapons clutched in his hands, muscles pulled taut, unsure what to do. He knows he should relax, knows it’s over, but the message doesn’t seem to have really sunk in yet.

He jumps, then swivels around as he feels a hand on his shoulder, his dagger stopping at Geralt’s neck, as amber eyes looked at him with concern. Jaskier nearly laughs at that – _he should be the one concerned about his Witcher, for god’s sake._ He lowers his blade, and looks away.

He can’t stare into those sunflower eyes too long, he knows he might not like what he’ll see. So, his eyes search the throne room, for another soldier, another target, but there are none left standing. He considers searching the floor for survivors, killing anyone who might still be breathing, when he hears Geralt’s quiet voice behind him: “Jaskier…”

He looks up again, swallowing thickly at the confusion and concern in those sunflower eyes. He can’t bear the sight of it – he doesn’t _deserve_ his love’s concern.

Not when he enjoyed killing those Nilfgaardians, not when he revelled in their fear.

He tries to look away again, and Geralt’s hand captures his chin, forcing him to look into those amber eyes. He blinks away the tears at Geralt’s soft expression. “It’s over, Jaskier.”

The Bard nods. _He knows, his body just doesn’t._ He clenches his jaw, wrenching his chin out of Geralt’s grip, ignoring the flash of hurt on his love’s face. He turns around, stepping over the bodies, out of the throne room.

Maybe it would’ve been better if his love hadn’t seen him like this, murderous, covered in blood, muscles pulled taut like a lute string – _too far gone._

Too late now, though.

҉ ҉ ҉

He sits on the side of the bridge that leads down to the fields at the foot of the Amell mountains, a hundred foot drop beneath his feet. He knows he should be scared of the height, just like he’s always been, but he’s numb, as he picks at the dried blood on his hands, letting the flakes drop into the void in front of him.

He’s tired, so incredibly tired, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t feel like getting up and going to his family, or going home afterwards. If he does, he’ll have to face what he’s done, all those people he killed. Yes, they were Nilfgaardians, responsible for Geralt’s suffering, but _still –_ Jaskier shouldn’t have enjoyed their blood flowing over his hands so much.

He squeezes his eyes shut as images of blood and violence and life draining from human eyes push themselves onto his mind. He wonders if he’ll have nightmares tonight.

He knows he will. If he manages to sleep, that is.

His mind recoils at the thought of home, his bedroom, his soft bed. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to get up and leave and pretend everything is normal. Because it isn’t – he just murdered about two dozen people in cold blood, right in front of Geralt, showing his flaws and sins to the one he cares about the most.

How could Geralt ever look at him the same way? How could he ever learn to love the monster Jaskier’s become?

He can’t, Jaskier knows. So he sits there, at the edge of oblivion, in the little bubble of quietude and numbness.

He doesn’t look up as he hears footsteps approaching him, doesn’t move as Yennefer sits next to him. “You okay?” she asks. “Thought you’d be with your family by now.”

He shrugs, still picking rust-coloured flakes off his fingers. Yennefer sighs, letting her feet dangle in the abyss, next to him. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

He does look up at that, brow furrowed in confusion and she continues: “The killing. You liked it.”

He starts shaking his head, but she scoffs, rolling her eyes a bit. “Oh, please, I know you did, Jask. I can hear your thoughts, remember?” She looks at him, eyebrows raised.

He clenches his jaw. “ **Stop fucking reading my mind.** ”

She laughs. “Never.” He has to resist the overwhelming urge to push her off the side of the bridge into the fields below – not to kill her, of course, just to scare her a bit.

She sighs again. “I’ll tell you a secret.” He simply looks at her, not really all that interested in what she has to say. “I enjoyed it too. I enjoyed making those Nilfgaardians bleed for what they’ve done, I enjoyed seeing them die, and I enjoyed watching their bodies litter the floor.”

He looks away, shaking his head. “ **You’re lying to make me feel better.** ”

She scoffs. “I’m not. I _am_ saying this to make you feel better, but it is the truth.”

He runs a hand across his face. “ **Then why do I feel like shit? Why does it hurt so much?”**

She smiles at him, then gets up, patting him on his shoulder. “Because you’re a good person, Jask. Now get up and go see your family, they’re worried about you.” And with that, she’s gone.

҉ ҉ ҉

The first thing he notices when he walks into the courtyard is three figures lying on the ground, covered by blankets. Dead.

They’re surrounded by the younger Mages, some of them crying, others just staring at the bodies, seemingly numb. Tissaia, Triss and Yennefer are there too, offering comfort to some of the girls. The bodies must be fellow Mages, and Jaskier wonders if they died during the first wave of the battle – before the slowing of time – or during the second wave.

He wonders if he could’ve done something to save them. He wonders if they suffered. He wonders if they felt the same fear he saw in the eyes of the soldiers he killed.

Probably.

He walks past them, across the courtyard, through the tall doors to the throne room. The bodies of the Nilfgaardian soldiers are gone, and he decides not to dwell on their absence or the way the floor is sticky with their blood too much.

Sunlight falls in through the large window above the dais, and he looks at the image of the Amell mountains, and the sun above them in the stained glass. It might be the only window in this Keep that isn’t smashed to bits, and he wonders why.

Maybe it’s too far up to make breaking it worth someone’s while. Maybe it did break, but Nilfgaard repaired it, for some reason. Maybe none of the windows in the Keep were broken by hands, maybe they just fell victim to the forces of nature.

And maybe it doesn’t matter.

He considers throwing a rock at it, just for the hell of it. It’s not like anyone will return to the Keep any time soon, for why would they? It’s in Nilfgaardian territory now, and Nilfgaardian soldiers probably don’t want to live in a place where so many of their fellow countrymen died.

He pushes the memory of so many bodies littering the floor away, of fear in unfamiliar eyes as their blood flows over his hands.

A small sound draws his attention, and he looks to the right, towards the empty doorway that leads to the hall to the stairwell. He sees Ciri and Geralt, sitting at the edge of the mosaic floor, where the outer wall of the Keep has crumbled away.

Ciri is quietly sobbing into Geralt’s shoulder, her arms tight around her dad, as he holds her close as well. Jaskier feels anger bubbling up in his throat as he sees new scars on his love’s back; jagged, badly healed white lines crossing each other over and over again. _A whipping, surely._

He pushes the rage away as his hands clench into fists, as a red cloud hazes over his vision. _They’re dead, they’re gone, it’s over. Calm down._

He sighs quietly, and Geralt half turns around. Confusion, worry, then relief in those amber eyes, and Jaskier lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding – _no anger, no blame, no fear –_ as his love stretches his left arm out a bit, a smile on his lips. The Bard walks forward, sitting down next to his Witcher, letting Geralt pull him into his shoulder.

He sighs a bit, looking at the fields at the foot of the mountain below them, a stream or two cutting through the short grass, mountains in the distance, barely visible against the grey sky. Content curls around in his chest – the same way Moon always does when she settles on his lap, purring loudly – as he sits there with his little family, his love’s heartbeat loud and clear in his ear, the chest under his cheek rising and falling slowly. _He’s alive, he’s safe, he’s here._

So long he’s been waiting, preparing for this moment, for this feeling of being home again – because no place is home without Geralt, and now that he finally has it, he doesn’t know what to do, what to say.

He doesn’t have to do or say anything, though. He can just sit here, like this, with his family in his arms, finally at peace.

He slowly, carefully stretches his mind out to his chest – to what used to be his wasteland. It had been frozen over when Geralt disappeared. He’s been avoiding it for the past few weeks, hasn’t tried to think about it too much, the cold always hurting when he got too close to it. He supposes now that he’s got his love back, it’s thawed again, or will soon – so he dares a quick look at it.

His mind recoils when he finds his wasteland thawed, but covered in blood. He has to blink away his tears.

He’s a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, I also made a playlist for this fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6QzIJjIZSHF0jagqAsvcsW?si=fryBmhgORh6zWO8JpNaEAw
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: @queen-squish


	15. Knows Sunlight, Sunlight, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, y'all! 
> 
> First of all, thank you for all the kind comments on the last chapter! They made me feel a little less guilty and alone and it makes me really happy to hear how much this story means to you guys.
> 
> That said, I will be uploading a lot less frequently than before, since exams are coming up and I'm getting really busy and stressed. I do have a backlog of at least six more chapters so don't worry, this story is far from over. 
> 
> I listened to Repeat Until Death by Novo Amor on repeat while writing this chapter, so check it out if you're interested, it's a very sweet and nice song. You can also find it on the playlist I made for this fic, right here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6QzIJjIZSHF0jagqAsvcsW?si=2JHl4OoxSgWfufh3wFLv4g
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

The Mages leave later that same day, back to Aretuza. They will bury their friends there, Tissaia told Jaskier. They say their goodbyes and portal away from the forest behind the cottage, the open place weirdly empty without their tents and presence.

The Witchers leave shortly afterwards. Vesemir would return to Kaer Morhen, and Lambert and Eskel would set out on the road again, taking contracts. They would return to the cottage in the autumn, pay them a visit before going to Kaer Morhen for the winter. They don’t say goodbye to Geralt, they never do – it’s too painful to.

Triss kisses Yennefer goodbye before stepping through a portal back to the court of King Foltest. She’s been away too long already, and no matter how much she would like to stay, she can’t – she’s needed in Vizima. Jaskier pretends not to see Yennefer crying.

He stands there, in the middle of the forest, staring at the empty spot where the tents of the Mages and the Witchers used to be. It’s weirdly quiet without their chatter and the sounds of training, and he wonders if it’s always been so silent in these woods. He supposes so. He’s just never paid attention to it before.

The sun is starting to set, painting the trees and the grass under his feet in a golden light. He’s tired, so incredibly tired, and there’s a heaviness in his gut he can’t quite place. It doesn’t feel real. The emptiness in the forest, the Mages gone, the Witchers gone, Geralt back. Everything should go back to normal at some point, but it feels like it never will.

How could it?

Geralt’s been gone for weeks – gods know what happened to him in that time – and Jaskier’s hands are drenched in blood. Nothing will ever be the same, ever again.

He doesn’t want to go inside, doesn’t want to face the truth, doesn’t want to face the fact that things have changed and won’t return to what used to be normal – that they will have to rebuild their lives and set a new normal.

His mind wanders to the Nilfgaardian boy. Vesemir told him the young guard can’t come to Kaer Morhen – the boy can already fight, and is too old to be a Witcher. Rhirthisech doesn’t need a Witcher’s life, anyways – he needs a normal one, and he needs someone to acquaint him to the rest of the world before he can stand on his own two feet.

The boy’s been a soldier long enough already, and he needs a life that suits his gentle nature better.

Jaskier sighs, as the realization that he and Geralt will have to raise the boy sinks in deeper. He still doesn’t exactly trust him, but there is no denying that Rhirthisech is gentle and more inclined towards kindness. Jaskier saw the childlike wonder on the boy’s face when they stepped through the portal into the garden of the cottage, and the young guard saw a tree for the first time.

He sighs again, then closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, in and out, in and out. The air smells of wildflowers, grass, and ozone – though this time there is no magic nearby. A storm is coming in.

He opens his eyes again, staring at the empty spot and the trampled grass for another few seconds, before heading back to the cottage.

It’s time to face the start of the rest of his life.

҉ ҉ ҉

The first thing he sees when he walks into the garden is Rhirthisech. The boy is sitting next to the pond, one hand carding through the blades of grass, the other gently resting in the water. He’s looking around at the trees, the pond, the bushes, Roach, the hen, the grass, back to the trees, the sky, and so on and so forth – his gaze rarely ever resting on one thing for longer than a second before his attention is drawn by another thing.

Ciri is sitting opposite him, laughing at his childlike expression of wonder and amazement, as she tells him about the different things you can find in the garden and the forest. “See, Rhirthi, a tree has bark, which is rough, but some trees have syrup underneath their bark – like the maple tree. Do you know what a maple tree is?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “There are some in the forest, here. I’ll show you one tomorrow, if you want.”

The boy nods his head in wonder, eyes bright and curious and so full of light and joy it makes Jaskier hurt a bit. He used to be like that once, too, and he hopes he can help the boy keep some of his light and innocence, even in this dark world.

He walks past them, into the cottage, a small smile on his face as Ciri tells Rhirthi about birds.

҉ ҉ ҉

The living room and kitchen are empty, and he figures Yennefer and Geralt must be upstairs. He makes his way into the hall, Moon meowing loudly as she wraps herself around his legs, demanding attention. He smiles softly, bending down to scratch her behind her ears. She protests as he moves on, but she stays in the hall anyways, her blue eyes following him as he climbs up the stairs.

The door to his and Geralt’s bedroom is open, and he can see his Witcher hunched over in the middle of the bed, as Yennefer puts gauze on his back. Geralt smiles when he sees Jaskier, and the Bard’s stomach makes a little flip at the sight of those sunflower eyes. _He’s alive, he’s safe, he’s here._

“ **Hey, you,** ” he signs, as he walks over, standing at the foot of the bed, “ **how are you feeling?** ”

Geralt snorts. “Like shit.” He winces as Yennefer puts a little too much pressure on his back, the Mage mumbling out a quick apology.

“ **What are you doing?** ” Jaskier asks. Last he remembers, the wounds on his love’s back were closed – ragged and badly healed, but closed nonetheless.

Yennefer replies in Geralt’s stead: “He got some new wounds during the battle. I’m just bandaging them, because they overlap with the scars, so they’ll heal slower.”

Jaskier nods, anger flaring up in his chest when he sees Geralt’s left hand, only four fingers. He sighs, closing his eyes, finding some sense of comfort at the image of dozens of Nilfgaardian bodies littering the floor of the throne room in the Weeping Keep. The realization that this calms him down hurts, but he pushes it away.

He sits down next to his love, leaning against his right shoulder, bringing his hand up, softly tracing the seven thin, red lines on Geralt’s skin. He looks up, the question in his eyes, and his love shakes his head almost imperceptibly. _He doesn’t want to talk about it._

So, Jaskier’s hand trails down, drawing sweet nothings into his Witcher’s chest, fingers ghosting over too thin skin and ribs that stick out a little too far to be comfortable. He wants to ask, he so desperately needs to know what his love went through at Nilfgaard’s hands, but he also doesn’t – afraid of the nightmares he knows he’ll have, afraid of pushing Geralt too far too soon.

He’ll have to wait until his love is ready to talk about it.

Yennefer finally finishes bandaging Geralt’s back, giving him a pat on his shoulder as she stands up. “Right, I’ll…” she hesitates, and Jaskier can see her hovering at the foot of the bed from the corner of his eye “I’ll give you some space.”

And with that, she’s gone. He knows she wants to linger, knows she’s scared that Geralt might disappear if she looks away too long – he knows because that’s how he feels, as well. He revels in the feeling of Geralt’s shoulder against his cheek, the soft sound of his love’s breathing – a little shallower than he’s used to – filling the air around him.

He wonders if, with time, his Witcher will start smelling like fresh bread and the ocean again. He hopes so.

He pulls away, reluctantly. “ **You need a bath, love.** ”

Geralt smiles lightly. “You’re one to talk,” he frowns a bit, something Jaskier can’t quite identify in those amber eyes, “you’re covered in blood.”

The Bard looks down, wiping at his arm, rust-coloured flakes falling onto the sheets. “ **Guess I am.** ” He looks up at Geralt again, losing himself in dandelion eyes and the not yet sunk-in realization that it’s all over now. _Is it?_ “ **I don’t want to leave you behind, though.** ”

Geralt blinks once, twice, swallowing thickly. He looks away, and Jaskier pretends he can’t see the slight tremor of his love’s hands. “I don’t want you to,” he whispers, looking out of the window, as the sun starts to fully set.

He seemingly can’t tear his eyes away, and Jaskier wonders how long it’s been since his love’s seen the sun set.

He stands up from the bed, taking Geralt’s hand in his own. His Witcher lets himself be led to the bathroom. “You first,” he says, and Jaskier shakes his head. “You first,” Geralt insists, “you’re absolutely covered in blood.”

“ **But you probably haven’t had a bath in weeks,** ” Jaskier signs, and his love nods, then shrugs.

“I can wait.” He wipes at Jaskier’s cheek, watching as more flakes fall off his skin.

The Bard sighs. “ **Or we can just go together.** ”

Geralt smiles again, and something in Jaskier’s chest cracks as he realizes his Witcher is holding back a chuckle. _As if he’s scared to laugh._ “The bathwater will be so filthy, then.”

“ **I don’t care.** ” He smiles as he ducks his head lightly, resting his forehead against his love’s chest, closing his eyes in relief at the feeling of the strong, steady heartbeat against his skin.

Geralt pulls him closer, leaning his chin on Jaskier’s head. “Yeah, me neither.”

They stand there for a while, in each other’s embrace. Jaskier doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to move away. He’s been missing his love for so, so unbearably long, and now that he has him back, he’s scared – more scared than he’s ever been before.

He’s so afraid of losing Geralt again it hurts. A dull ache in his chest, sitting there – unwanted, unyielding, unspoken – as he holds on to his love, scared to let go, trying to revel in the feeling of Geralt’s heartbeat against his forehead, of his love’s breath fanning against his hair, of his arms finally not being empty anymore.

He doesn’t want to let go. Doesn’t want to move away. Doesn’t want to be alone again.

For the first time since he found Geralt again, he cries. Slowly at first; hot, bitter tears spilling down his cheeks one by one, then more and more, and eventually he’s sobbing into his Witcher’s chest, holding his love tightly.

Geralt, in turn, holds Jaskier close, nose buried in the brown curls, and Jaskier realizes his love is crying as well, when he feels tears fall on his scalp. “I missed you,” Geralt whispers, voice soft and broken. “I missed you so, so much. I thought-“ the sentence is choked off by a quiet sob, and Jaskier’s shoulders hurt a bit as Geralt squeezes him closer.

He doesn’t care, though, he welcomes the ache, if only because it’s proof that his love is _alive_ and _there,_ and by the gods, _he doesn’t want to let go, not yet._

He wants to tell Geralt how much he loves him, how much he missed him as well, and how he feels like he would’ve died if he’d never seen him again. He so desperately wants to, but he would have to pull back, let go of his love to sign it to him, and he just _can’t. He can’t let go, he can’t move away, he can’t,_ because if he did, it would feel like losing his love all over again and it would _kill him._

So he stays there, still sobbing into Geralt’s chest, as his love holds him close – closer than he ever has before, and Jaskier _knows._

He knows Geralt is afraid to let go, too.

҉ ҉ ҉

He has to let go eventually, and it hurts more than anything ever has in his life. The dull ache in his chest spreads, and more tears slip from his eyes as his arms are suddenly painfully empty.

Geralt holds him at an arm’s length, amber eyes wet and hurting as well. Then, he lets go, and Jaskier nearly collapses with the gravity of being alone again, even though his love is _alive_ and he’s _right there,_ but Jaskier can’t stand being so far away, even if it’s just a few feet.

_Don’t go, you’re half of me, now._

He sighs, hands trembling as he undoes the strap that still sits across his chest, though his weapons are downstairs. Next, he kicks off his boots, shoving them into the corner with his foot. They’ll have to be thrown out later – they’re absolutely ruined by all the blood that’s soaked into the leather.

Geralt helps him lift his shirt over his head, as his arms still hurt – the wounds on his forearms from a few days earlier and the one on his upper arm from that day not yet healed. His love’s fingers brush against his skin, and he leans into the touch, no matter how fleeting.

He turns around, even though it _hurts_ to not be able to see Geralt, and walks over to the cabinet, taking some rose bath salts and chamomile soap. He hears his love step into the bath behind him, and he almost sighs in relief at the reminder that Geralt is still there, no matter how silly it is to be scared his love might have disappeared again.

He puts the soap and the salt on a small table next to the tub, then steps out of his trousers, tossing them into the corner with the rest of his clothes, to be disposed of later.

The water turns a rusted colour when he lowers himself in the bath. It clears up after a couple of seconds, though, and Jaskier has to remind himself to thank Yennefer for her excessive use of magic, later. For now, he lets the warm water relax his muscles, his legs intertwined with Geralt’s between them.

He takes a washing cloth, putting soap and water on it, before scooting forward, sitting on his knees in front of Geralt. “ **May I?** ” he asks.

His love nods, then closes his eyes as the cloth touches his skin softly. Jaskier’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he methodically, gently, washes Geralt’s left shoulder, then his right. His movements falter as he traces over the seven angry, red stripes, but he continues soon afterwards.

Something twists in his gut at the sight of Geralt’s ribs and collarbones sticking out just a little too far, but he keeps going, washing his Witcher bit by gentle bit. He revels in the feeling of his love under his fingertips, and the knowledge that Geralt is _there_ and _safe,_ even if he’s hurt.

His fingers trace over the stripes again, and his love looks up, amber eyes wide and vulnerable and hurt. “ **Want to talk about it?** ” Jaskier asks, then nods softly as Geralt looks away and shakes his head.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I can’t- not yet.” Geralt shakes his head again, and Jaskier nearly weeps at the hurt in his love’s voice, the apology for not being able to talk about the horrors he went through.

He touches his love’s cheek gently, turning his Witcher’s face towards him. “ **Hey, don’t apologize. Take your time. I’m here, always.** ”

Geralt nods, then closes his eyes again, as Jaskier puts some shampoo in his hands, gently rubbing it into the silver hair, softly undoing the knots. His heart contracts a bit as he threads his fingers through the white stands - _gods, how he’s missed this._ He cups some water into his hands, letting it run over Geralt’s head. He does this a couple of times more, until his Witcher’s hair is free of soap, and clean again – probably for the first time in weeks.

His hands end up on Geralt’s shoulders again, and he leans forward, resting his head against his Witcher’s. They stay like that, for a while, breathing against each other’s skin, holding onto each other in the warm water.

Jaskier opens his eyes as Geralt speaks, softly: “I thought you were dead.” His Witcher’s brow is furrowed and Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to see his love’s eyes to know he’s hurting, so unbelievably much. “They-“ Geralt’s voice catches in his throat, before he continues, more quietly “they told me they had killed you. They said- I thought-“ a few tears slip from between his lashes, as he grimaces, and Jaskier tightens his hands around Geralt’s shoulders. _I’m here, love._

“I thought you were dead,” Geralt whispers, voice soft and broken. He’s hunching forwards, and Jaskier straddles his Witcher’s lap, holding his love to his chest as quiet, broken sobs wrack his Witcher’s body.

He gently rocks back and forth as Geralt cries, threading his fingers through the silver hair, softly scraping his nails against his love’s scalp – just the way Geralt likes, he knows. _I’m here. I’m here, love. I’ll always be here._ He can’t say it, but he hopes Geralt knows it, knows he’s not letting go.

He closes his eyes, a few tears of his own slipping down his face. The last few weeks have been hell, but being here, with his love, broken and hurt, in his arms, pains him more than he ever could’ve imagined. He wishes he could fix it, could kiss the pain away, could take the memories away and undo the past.

But he can’t, so he cries in frustration at his own powerlessness, at his inability to make it all better. He can’t magically fix it, turn back time, no matter how much he wishes he could.

All he can do is be here for his love, help him through this if possible. He’ll just have to convince Geralt that he’s alive, and there, and that everything is going to be okay, somehow.

So he sits there, holding his love close, as Geralt cries softly. _I’m still here love, like I’ve always been before._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I just wanted to say that I'm so sorry for not replying to any of your comments on the last chapter. I loved them and I read every single one of them, like, at least once a day, but unfortunately I did not have the mental energy to formulate any replies so I'm really sorry for that. Just know that I saw them and I really appreciated them. (still do)
> 
> As always, you can also find me on tumblr @queen-squish.


	16. And At Last Can Grant A Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters (@pansexual-courfeyrac on tumblr) for being my beta!
> 
> This chapter features lines from Repeat Until Death and Carry You, both by Novo Amor. This is basically just fluff! Read at your own risk!!
> 
> (Also just gonna blatantly do promo for my other work here. I uploaded a short fic called To The Moon And Back, a few days ago. It's a sorta modern AU featuring engineer!Jaskier and astronaut!Geralt. It's basically straight-up fluff, so check it out if you're interested!)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He’s lying on his side in the no longer too large bed, looking at Geralt’s face as his love sleeps. He wonders how long it’s been since his Witcher had a good night’s rest. Too long, probably.

Quietly, he brings his hand up, softly tracing his love’s eyebrows with his thumb. His fingers move down to ghost over his love’s cheekbones - sticking out just a little further than usually, over the strong line of Geralt’s nose, over the cupid’s bow of his lips. He wonders how many times he’s told his love how beautiful he is, how much he loves him and wants to spend the rest of his life with him – and the life after this one as well, if there is one.

He hasn’t kept count of how many times he’s said it, but he knows it’s not enough, and it never will be.

He lowers his hand further, tracing softly over the thin, red lines in his love’s shoulder. He’s curious as to what happened, what prompted these seven, neat, red lines, burned into Geralt’s skin, but he won’t ask. His love will tell him when he’s ready.

He looks up as amber eyes flutter open, and Geralt smiles lazily. “What time is it?”

“ **Not yet dawn.** ” Jaskier smiles back, his signs small and slow.

Geralt sighs contentedly, pressing his forehead against Jaskier, kissing him softly. “I missed you.”

Jaskier smiles again, stealing another quick kiss from his love. “ **I missed you too.** ”

He expects his love to go back to sleep, but Geralt continues looking at Jaskier. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Jaskier softly traces his fingers over Geralt’s lips, before lowering his hand again to sign: “ **Glad you were wrong.** ”

His love smiles again, and Jaskier nearly weeps at the sight. “So am I.”

Geralt sighs softly, as he pulls Jaskier closer, burying his nose in the brown curls. “Go to sleep, Jask.”

The Bard presses his nose in the crook of Geralt’s neck. Fine, he’ll sleep, then, even if he’s scared he’ll wake up to find his love gone, just like he did so many weeks ago. He’ll sleep. As long as his love still holds him close.

He doesn’t want to be let go. Not yet, at least. _Don’t go, you’re half of me, now._

҉ ҉ ҉

He wakes up, the world outside the window still dark, as he feels Ciri crawling onto the bed. He smiles, slinging an arm around her as she nestles between them. “’m Sorry,” she says, “I couldn’t sleep.”

He presses a small kiss to the top of her blonde curls. “’s Okay,” he hears Geralt’s sleepy voice on the other side of their daughter. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Jaskier smiles again, closing his eyes. He falls asleep knowing he won’t be visited by nightmares of Geralt’s imprisonment and Nilfgaardian blood running over his hands.

Not tonight, at least.

҉ ҉ ҉

He wakes up again as soft sunlight falls on his face. He smiles when he meets Geralt’s eyes over Ciri’s curls. She’s still asleep, he notices, and he tries not to move too much – he doesn’t wake her up.

So, he simply lays there, looking at Geralt, losing himself in sunflower eyes. It almost feels like everything has gone back to normal, like the past few weeks simply didn’t happen, as he lays in the soft bed with his little family, sunlight illuminating the room, filling him with warmth.

The feeling dissipates as he notices the wince Geralt makes as he shifts slightly, and the seven scars on his love’s shoulder, when he sees the missing finger on the hand that’s tracing soft circles into Jaskier’s side. Still, he’s here, and he’s safe, now, and that’s all that matters.

And maybe everything will go back to normal, eventually.

Geralt leans forward to steal a kiss from Jaskier, and he feels like he can’t breathe anymore, crushing relief and the knowledge that everything will be fine weighing down on him and making him feel like he’s floating all at once.

Ciri stirs, and her green eyes flutter open as Geralt leans back down against the pillows. She smiles widely. “You’re still here,” she mutters, as she pushes her face into her dad’s arm.

Geralt grins, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

Jaskier smiles at his little family, a light igniting in his chest. For the first time in weeks, he feels safe, loved, and perfectly happy. _Guess I won’t be needing my weapons anymore._

The thought is paired with a wild, unbridled joy that makes him grin. He realizes he’s lost himself, in the search for Geralt, and now, with his love back in his arms, he’s glad he no longer has to fight to keep them safe. And if he does, well, he’s got his Witcher by his side.

He hadn’t realized how much his love made him feel safe, and how much he needed to be able to rely on Geralt.

_I can’t seem to not need to need you._

҉ ҉ ҉

When they finally get out of bed, they find Yennefer in the living room, Moon in her lap. She’s watching through the window as Rhirthi turns in circles in the garden, following the birds with his eyes as they fly past. “He slept outside last night,” she tells them, without looking back. “He said he’s never seen the stars before until yesterday.”

She gets up, earning an indignant scream from Moon, and finally turns around. “You were right, Geralt.” She glances over her shoulder as the boy raises his hands, tentatively touching the leaves of one of the trees that surround the garden. “He’s just a kid.”

“He’s been through a lot and I…” Geralt gets a faraway look in his eyes as he watches Rhirthi lightly tug on one of the leaves “I couldn’t leave him behind. He deserves better than spending his life fighting for a country that doesn’t care about him.”

Yennefer nods. “So, what are we going to do with him?”

“ **We give him a home,** ” Jaskier signs, “ **right here with us.** ”

Yennefer frowns. “I thought you didn’t trust him.”

Jaskier shrugs. **“That was before.** ”

Geralt smiles, lightly bumping his shoulder into Jaskier’s.

He looks up as Ciri pipes up behind him. “I like him too. He’s very nice.”

Yennefer sighs, then shrugs. “Guess we’re keeping the boy, then.” She chews on her lip. “Will have to magic a bedroom out of thin air, though.”

Jaskier smiles. “ **I’m sure you’ll manage, oh, mighty Mage.** ”

She rolls her eyes at him, and he knows she would’ve flipped him off if Ciri hadn’t been there. “Shut up, Jask.” He laughs at her, and she shrugs. “Well, I’m going to the market. We’re going to need a new hen with how big this household is getting.”

“Can I come, too?” Ciri asks, and Jaskier smiles at the fond look in his best friend’s eyes, as she nods.

҉ ҉ ҉

They leave a few minutes later, and Jaskier follows Geralt into the garden. Rhirthi looks up, light and joy sparkling in his eyes. “Hi!”

Geralt smiles. “Hey, Rhirthi. Sleep well?”

The boy smiles widely, shaking his head. “No! I was outside and I was looking at the stars so I couldn’t sleep! And there was this sound, I’m not sure what it was. It was a bit like rustling but I don’t know why that sound happened. It did scare me at first, but then it was very nice.” He perks up as the summer breeze moves the leaves on the trees. “There it is again!”

Geralt smiles again. “That’s the wind, Rhirthi.”

The boy cocks his head as he listens. “Oh! Never heard it like this before.” He turns around, pointing to Roach. “Is she safe?”

Jaskier nearly laughs. _Absolutely not, unless your name is Geralt of Rivia or you have sugar cubes._ He wants to say it, wants to joke and bond with the bright, young man standing before him, but he knows Rhirthi can’t understand sign language, so he keeps quiet.

Geralt shrugs. “Only if you have a treat for her. Have you seen a horse before?”

Rhirthi nods, as he turns back to them. “I have! Some of the older soldiers used to ride them, but those horses were mean, they were always trying to bite me.”

Geralt frowns, then smiles, walking across the garden to Roach’s stable, motioning for Rhirthi to follow him. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Jaskier smiles as the pair fawns over an impassive Roach, Rhirthi slowly reaching his hand out to pet her as she chews on some grass lazily. He feels fondness for this strange boy blooming in his chest, and he vows to give him a home, away from the violence Nilfgaard has forced upon him. A home where he can explore the world around him at his own pace and let his light illuminate the darkness.

҉ ҉ ҉

The sun is starting to set again as he and Geralt walk the short distance up the hill, hand in hand. He tries to ignore the way his love heaves a bit when he reaches the maple tree on the hill, or the way the skin on his hand is smooth, familiar callouses suddenly gone.

Jaskier sighs, letting the setting sun illuminate him and warm his face, feeling the breeze on his skin. It’s a bit colder than it would’ve been a few weeks ago, and he knows autumn is approaching. It will still take some weeks for the leaves on the trees to turn red, though.

A soft “hmm,” draws his attention, and he opens his eyes, watching as Geralt bends, picking up something from underneath the bench under the maple tree. His love is partially turned away from him, looking at the object in his hand, and Jaskier tries to sneak a look at what it is, stretching his neck out, to no avail.

Geralt turns back around, whatever he found under the bench in his closed fist. “Thought I noticed something missing,” he says, softly, a fond smile on his lips. He lifts up Jaskier’s left hand, tracing his thumb over his empty ring finger. “I did wonder where you left it.”

Jaskier cocks his head, eyes growing wide as Geralt opens his fist, a silver ring, waves engraved in the metal, laying in his palm. _So that’s where it went._

He pulls his hand out of Geralt’s hesitantly. “ **I’m so sorry, I lost it. I was careless, and stupid, and I-** “

His apology is cut short as his love takes hold of his wrist. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Jaskier frowns, softly pulling his wrist away. “ **You’re not mad?** ”

His love shakes his head. “No, of course I’m not. After all,” he holds up his left hand, the one with only four fingers, “I lost mine too.”

Jaskier smiles, then pulls the necklace with Geralt’s ring from his neck, taking it off the chain. “ **I suppose you want this back?** ”

Geralt smiles as well, taking hold of the Bard’s left hand, slipping the ring back on his finger. “Well, I can’t wear mine, anymore, though.”

Jaskier laughs breathily, his chest filled with air and light and _love._ “ **Don’t be silly. You have two hands.”** He takes Geralt’s right hand, slipping the silver ring, the dark silhouette of a pine forest engraved in the metal, on the ring finger. “ **There.** ”

“Everything is back to normal, now.” Jaskier smiles at his love, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, nodding softly, even though he knows what Geralt said is not true.

Can’t hurt to pretend.

҉ ҉ ҉

He watches the sun set as he sits under the old maple tree with Geralt, his love’s arm over his shoulders. The hills of Lyria stretch out in front of them, green trees under a red and orange sky, a slight breeze gracing his skin. It’s been weeks since he sat under the tree – he never could bear doing it without his love in his arms. He still has a hard time letting go of Geralt, so he doesn’t, most of the time.

“You know,” Geralt mutters, amber eyes distant, fixating on the setting sun, “two days ago I thought I’d never see this view again. And even if I entertained the thought-“ his voice catches in his throat, and Jaskier feels the arm around his shoulder tighten ever so slightly “I thought I would have to see it without you by my side.”

Jaskier sighs quietly at the hurt the words ignite in him, and he presses his face into his love’s neck, littering the skin with small kisses. _I’m here. I’m here, love._

He looks up as Geralt continues: “I’m sorry.” Jaskier frowns, and Geralt shakes his head slightly, amber eyes glazed over with tears. “I’m sorry for everything that happened. You must’ve gone through hell and I’m sorry, I-“ His voice is cut off as Jaskier softly lays his fingers over his love’s lips, shaking his head gently. _Don’t be. Don’t be, love._

He gently wipes away the few tears that slip from those sunflower eyes, and his love smiles at him hesitantly. Geralt gently leans down, pressing a soft kiss against his lips, and Jaskier smiles, lowering his hand to press it against his love’s chest, feeling the strong heartbeat against his fingers.

Geralt smiles earnestly now, and Jaskier knows his love understands what he’s trying to say, even if he doesn’t have the voice to say it. _In all your blame, in all your pain, I will carry you, always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can also find me on tumblr @queen-squish!


	17. To A Buried And Burning Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters (pansexual-courfeyrac on tumblr) for being my beta!
> 
> Sorry for being mia so much, it's just that exams are right around the corner and I genuinely don't have the mental or physical energy to write fic as serious as this right now, so I'm keeping the updates few and far between for a while so I don't immediately burn through the backlog before my exams are over.  
> Also, the song for this chapter is Flags by SYML! 10/10 recommend it.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

His mind still has trouble comprehending it as he sits on the bench under the old maple tree, watching the sun set over the hills of Lyria. It feels too perfect, too safe, too good to be true, and his heart clenches in his chest, as if waiting for something to happen – for the other shoe to drop, for the Eel to show up and tell him it was all a vision, for Jaskier to crumble to ashes in his hands.

 _Jaskier’s alive, we’re safe, I’m home –_ he tells himself over and over again, trying to will his heartbeat to slow down, the tight coil in his stomach to relax, his mind to listen to him. _I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay._

The sky turns a million different shades of red, orange, yellow, pink, purple, descending into the dark blue of the night as the last rays of sunlight disappear over the horizon. He knows the moon is rising behind him, knows the stars are starting to twinkle in the black ink of the night.

He sighs, as he traces soft circles into Jaskier’s arm, the warmth of his love next to him filling him with a light he’d never thought he’d feel again. He can’t help but smile, though a little hesitantly, scared that if he lets himself truly feel the happiness, the illusion might shatter and he’ll find out he’s still in that cold cell, in the hands of Nilfgaard.

He closes his arm tighter around his love’s shoulder. Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

~~He hopes it’s true.~~

҉ ҉ ҉

He wakes up, blinking as he lets his eyes adjust to the dark. His knees hurt, and he knows he’s sitting on a cold, stone floor, arms bound to the walls on either side of him. Pale starlight shines through the barred window high in the wall, barely illuminating the darkness.

He shivers against the damp cold of the cell, and he looks up, meeting eyes with a mousy-haired man, cruel smile on his thin lips, a satisfied glint in his muddy brown eyes, as he pats the Witcher’s cheek condescendingly. “Finally awake! Took you long enough, Witcher.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, but simply averts his eyes, looking at the grey wall in disinterest. He had been right – it had all been a lie. Jaskier being alive, being home, being safe, being happy, being with his family – a dream, fabricated by his tired mind to fill the gaping void in his chest, to at least feel some happiness before the end.

The realization shouldn’t hurt so much, but it does.

He does wonder if this is the end, as he sees a knife glint dangerously in the Eel’s hand. ~~He hopes it is.~~ He’s tired of not feeling anymore, of being numb, of the inside of this cold, grey cell.

He wonders if there’s an afterlife. He wonders if he’ll see Jaskier, there. He wonders if Nilfgaard will send his body to Yennefer and Ciri, or if they’ll throw it in a pit or a field somewhere to rot. It doesn’t really matter, he decides. He just want this all to be over.

He’s glad he at least got that one last, beautiful dream of being home with his family again.

The Eel sneers at him as he lifts the blade, pressing it against Geralt’s throat. It only hurts a bit, as he presses the blade in, slicing the Witcher’s neck open in one fell swoop.

Geralt lets his head hang, watching his own blood flow over his chest onto the cold, stone floor. He coughs, blood falling from his lips. He decides the worst part of dying is the being unable to breathe, the pressure on his chest building, the shaking of his shoulder as the Eel pushes against it. _Why is he doing that?_

The world fades to black.

҉ ҉ ҉

He wakes up with a startled gasp, Jaskier’s hand tight on his shoulder. Blue eyes, scared and worried meet his as he gasps in lungful of air, hands grasping at the sheets beneath him.

“Wh-“ he swallows thickly around the knot in his throat, his tongue heavy and dry in his mouth, his voice barely more than a rasp. “What happened?”

He looks at Jaskier, a vision so familiar yet so painful. Brown hair, blue eyes, cinnamon and blueberries, wandering hands ghosting over his skin, searching for a way to make things right again, worry and fear on his face, a heartbeat frantic and quick, bandages around his forearms, a ring on his finger. Geralt waits, studying who he hopes is the real Jaskier, waiting for him to open his mouth, to speak, ~~to show that this is just a vision, familiar and painful.~~

“ **You had a nightmare,** ” Jaskier signs, and Geralt lets out his breath, nodding. _He’s real._

Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

A light touch on his arm. “ **Want to talk about it?** ” He shakes his head, rubbing his hand over his face. He doesn’t want to relive the already fading memories of the nightmare, doesn’t want to recall the despair he felt when he thought this was all a dream, doesn’t want to remember the way he hadn’t been able to breathe.

He shakes his head again, touching his love’s cheek slightly with his knuckles, revelling in the warmth that seeps into his skin, in the sight of those blue eyes, wide, concerned, looking at him.

Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

He lays back down in the pillows, and Jaskier does the same, leaning his forehead against his. “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

His love smiles a bit, then nods, closing his eyes. Geralt waits until Jaskier’s breathing has evened out again, until his heartbeat is slow and steady, then carefully sits up, throwing the blankets off himself.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, hands holding onto the edges of the mattress as he looks out the window into the night sky. The moon is still high, and he knows it will be some time until the sun rises. He wonders if there have always been this many stars.

He looks back at Jaskier’s sleeping form, taking in the way the moonlight illuminates his pale skin, the way his nose twitches in his sleep, the way he lets out a soft snore from time to time.

He looks back out the window. He’s tired, so incredibly tired, but he doesn’t want to go to sleep just yet. He’s scared he’ll wake up in that cold cell again, only to find out this was all an elaborate dream, a beautiful vision of his desperate mind.

And even if it’s not, even if this is real, and Jaskier’s alive, and they’re safe, and he’s home – he doesn’t want to relive the horrors of the Weeping Keep, the memories that seem to have nestled too deep in his tired mind.

So he sits there, waiting for the moon to set and the sun to rise, for the dawn of a new day where he can laugh with his daughter, show Rhirthi a world without violence, trade insults with Yennefer, and hold his love like he used to.

A light touch at the small of his back startles him, and he half-turns. It’s just Jaskier’s hand. His love is still asleep, though, but slightly shivering, his arm stretched out over the bed in search of the Witcher’s warmth.

Geralt tucks his love in, pressing a small kiss to the top of his head, then sits back down, looking out the window, waiting for the sun to rise as he repeats the same words in his head over and over again: Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

҉ ҉ ҉

He gets up at the first rays of sunshine, quietly pulling his clothes on as to not wake his love up. His footsteps are light on the stairs, and a tiny bit of morning cold tingles on his skin as he steps outside, his bare toes curling in the grass, revelling in the feeling of the dew on his feet.

Roach snorts as he approaches her, and bumps her head into his shoulder as he starts brushing her. “I missed you too,” he mutters to her, her ears twitching a bit as if she understands what he’s saying. He chuckles, then swallows it back down.

He shouldn’t be laughing, shouldn’t be making noise, or else the guards outside his cell might catch him and Rhirthi talking, and he doesn’t want to be responsible for the boy’s suffering if he gets punished.

He blinks a few times. _Wait._ He’s not in his cell, there are no guards outside who might hear him, Rhirthi is safe and sound a bedroom of his very own, sleeping peacefully in the cottage. _It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine._

Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

He tries to blink the hurt away along with his tears, and continues brushing Roach.

҉ ҉ ҉

He walks back into the cottage, and finds Yennefer shushing a sobbing Jaskier. “It’s fine, it’s fine, I’m sure he’s fine, Jask.”

She looks up as the door closes behind Geralt, anger crossing her features as she stalks to him, slapping his chest. “What the hell were you thinking?” she hisses at him, fury in her violet eyes as she gestures at Jaskier behind her, who’s looking at Geralt with big, blue, tear-filled eyes. _Rain on a summer’s day._

“He woke up without you and panicked, because _of course he did._ What the hell were you thinking?” she repeats. She slaps his chest again, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking asshole,” then resolutely turns around, slamming the living room door behind her.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt mutters, as he walks over to his love, his hands coming up to hold Jaskier’s upper arms, thumbs gently stroking over his skin. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t realize- I’m sorry.” He hadn’t thought about the fact that his love must’ve woken up without him all those weeks, and must’ve thought Geralt had disappeared again when he woke up to an empty bed this morning.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, pulling his love to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

~~His fault his fault his fault his fault his fault.~~

҉ ҉ ҉

Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

Rhirthi bounces in anticipation as they stand at the gate that leads to the forest behind the house. Geralt lays his hand on the boy’s shoulder to calm him down. “Ready?”

Rhirthi nods feverously, wringing his hands in front of his bright blue shirt Yennefer and Ciri had bought for him – blue had promptly become the boy’s favourite colour that day. “I’m ready,” he whispers, and Geralt nods at Jaskier.

His love unlocks the gate, pushing it open, and Geralt lightly pushes the boy’s back, urging him to walk forward, into the woods.

Rhirthi’s mouth opens in surprise and wonder, as he looks around – at the tree trunks, at the high branches and leaves, at the ground, at the tufts of summer-green grass that spring up from the dirt, then up again, as a bird flies by. He walks forward, slowly turning in circles as he takes in the forest bit by bit.

“It’s-“ he shakes his head lightly “it’s like the throne room of the Weeping Keep but filled with life instead of stone.”

A sharp pang rings through Geralt’s chest, and suddenly he’s back in the Amell mountains, looking at a blood-covered Jaskier, taking in the dangerous and slightly deranged look in his love’s eyes with concern as the ground around them is littered with bodies. Jaskier looks up at him, still feral and angry, before he turns around and walks out of the throne room, leaving Geralt behind.

The Witcher blinks, and he’s back in the forest, his love’s hand lightly touching his arm. “ **Everything okay?** ” he asks, and Geralt nods, though Jaskier doesn’t look convinced.

“I’m fine, it’s fine. Don’t worry about me.” He lightly kisses his love, and Jaskier smiles at him, worry still remaining in those blue eyes.

Jaskier turns back at the boy as he runs through the forest with Ciri, playing some kind of game of tag, and Geralt feels fondness bloom in his chest. He’d never thought he would see Rhirthi so carefree and happy – back in the Keep – so hearing the boy’s laughter ringing out through the trees fills him with a light he’d never thought he’d feel again.

~~He does wonder if he’ll ever be able to breathe freely again, though.~~

҉ ҉ ҉

Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

Except he’s not. He’s in the cold, damp cell, the stones pressing against his knees painfully as his shoulders ache from the tension of being held up so long. Another crack of the whip, another violent wave of pain exploding over his back.

He doesn’t know how many times the Eel has whipped him, he doesn’t know how long it’s been going on for, he doesn’t know when it will end. He hopes he will eventually ~~die~~ survive.

Another crack of the whip, another high, cruel chuckle from the Eel, another wave of pain that stretches to his fingers and toes. He balls his hands around the chains that hold him up, desperate to ground himself, somehow, to not lose himself in the pain and the hopelessness. _Mind over matter._

Another crack of the whip, and the pain doesn’t hurt so bad anymore. He wonders how his back looks, how these new scars will heal. It doesn’t matter.

He wonders if it hurt when they cut Jaskier’s throat. He hopes it didn’t.

He lets his head hang, watching as the blood drips from his back onto the cold, stone floor. He imagines it’s not his, he imagines he’s not here but at home, safe in bed with his love.

Except his love is dead, and he’s in the damp, cold cell.

Another crack, another chuckle, another white-hot wave of pain spreading across his body, and he can’t concentrate enough to dissociate himself with the torture, to ignore the pain away.

_Matter over mind._

He gasps as he sits up in his bed, chest heaving with ragged breaths as he lets his head hang forward, burying his face in his hands. He startles as he feels a touch on his back, and looks up, but it’s only Jaskier, concerned blue eyes taking in his face as his love’s hand tucks some silver locks behind Geralt’s ear.

The Witcher waits – waits for this vision of his love to open his mouth and start speaking. He doesn’t.

“ **Want to talk about it?** ” he signs, and Geralt sighs in relief. Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

He shakes his head, then stills. Not talking about it won’t help him in the slightest, he knows, but he doesn’t want to burden his love with the horrors of what he went through.

He sighs again. “Just a nightmare.” His voice is soft and hoarse, grating against his dry throat like sandpaper. “About-“ he swallows around his heavy tongue. He can’t word it in a way that makes it hurt any less, so he points to his back with his thumb.

Jaskier nods, pressing a small kiss to Geralt’s shoulder. “ **Do you want to go back to sleep?** ” Geralt shakes his head, and his love nods, resting his cheek on the Witcher’s upper arm, threading his fingers through the white hair, sitting with him through the rest of the night, waiting for the new dawn.

҉ ҉ ҉

In the morning, Jaskier teaches Rhirthi and Ciri how to make pancakes, and the boy turns out to be a surprisingly talented cook, even though he claims he has no idea what he’s doing. Jaskier just shakes his head, laughing breathily, as he pulls the boy in a sideways hug.

Geralt smiles, before he leaves the three of them in the already cramped kitchen. Moon meows loudly from Yennefer’s lap as he walks into the living room, and the cat hops onto the floor, circling around his ankles, blue eyes begging for treats. He laughs and scratches her behind her ears, as Yennefer scoffs. “The betrayal…” she mutters, before turning back to her book.

He clears his throat. He’s wanted to ask something for a few days now, but he hasn’t had the opportunity to do so yet. Now seems perfect, though, as his love and the kids are in the kitchen, and he and Yen are alone.

He sits on the couch opposite her, and leans his elbow on his knees. She looks up from her book, familiar violet eyes curious and confused. “Well, spit it out, Geralt,” she says, as she pulls up an eyebrow.

He wrings his hands in front of him, absentmindedly twirling his ring around his finger. “You’re-“ he clears his throat again, as he looks at his hands “you’re a Mage, right?”

She looks at him weirdly, voice deadpan. “Clearly.”

“Do you-“ he clenches his jaw, swallowing hard “do you have any spells that can take away memories?”

She blinks, then puts her book down, leaning forward. “Is this about..?” He nods, and she sighs. “I wish I could help you, Geralt. I really do, but those kinds of spells are highly dangerous and volatile. One wrong move, one tiny mistake, and you lose everything.” She shakes her head, leaning back. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He nods, passing a hand over his face, pushing away said unwanted memories, and for a split second he’s back in the cold, damp cell. He blinks, and stone turns into wood, the pale moonlight turns into rays of sunshine, and he’s back in the living room.

Jaskier’s alive, they’re safe, he’s home.

“I understand,” he mutters, taking a deep breath, his lungs constricting painfully in his chest in protest. He still can’t breathe right, and he’s beginning to suspect he’ll never be able to again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also you can find me on tumblr @queen-squish.


	18. As Love And Its Decisive Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters (@pansexual-courfeyrac on tumblr) for being my beta!
> 
> Time for *looks at smudged writing on hand* sad. Cause I'm a sadist and a masochist. Beware!!  
> This chapter's song is Two by Sleeping At Last! Big vibes!!!  
> (blink and you might miss the Amazing Devil reference)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Morning light streams in through the open window, coating everything in a golden sheen. Jaskier watches as Geralt gets up, getting dressed for the day. Jaskier doesn’t want to, himself, though, doesn’t want to leave the soft blankets and warm pillows behind. He’s barely slept all night.

He had been woken up about two hours after going to bed, by his love having yet another nightmare. He had tried to calm Geralt down, to get the bad dream to dissipate, but unfortunately, Geralt had woken up anyways, bolting upright in the bed, deep, panicked breaths making his chest heave, amber eyes looking at Jaskier suspiciously. As always, Geralt had been waiting – for what, Jaskier didn’t know. Geralt always refused to tell him.

Jaskier had, of course, signed to his love, asking if everything was alright, and Geralt had relaxed, shoulders slumping a bit as he had nodded hesitantly. As usual, Jaskier had asked if his love wanted to try going back to sleep again. Sometimes Geralt agreed, and they would be woken up a few hours later by yet another nightmare, and sometimes he didn’t, and Jaskier would sit with his love through the night.

Geralt had refused last night.

So Jaskier had sighed, and had pretended he wasn’t tired, and had laid his head on his love’s shoulder, sitting with Geralt, waiting for the sun to rise.

He had asked his love if he wanted to talk about the dream, about what happened in the Keep, about the seven thin, red lines on his shoulder – as usual. Geralt had shaken his head, and had shut Jaskier out – as usual.

The Bard is pulled out of his musings as Geralt lands a small kiss on his forehead. “Time to wake the kids.” And with that, Geralt is out the door. He hears him making idle chatter in the hallway with Yennefer, then he hears them knocking on Ciri’s door, telling her to get out of bed, then a knock on Rhirthi’s bedroom door, next to Ciri’s.

As always, the boy is dressed and in the hall within minutes – due to his soldier training, Jaskier suspects. As always, Ciri takes a long while to get out of bed, bare feet dragging across the floor as she groans worse than a drowner all the way down the stairs, saying that _ugh it’s so early, can’t you let me sleep in for once? Yes, I know it’s nine already but, dad, I’m tired._

Jaskier sinks back in the pillows, allowing himself a moment to gather the pieces of his tired mind and body before he starts getting ready for the day.

_A set of fearful eyes as life drains from them, sharp metal in his hand, pushing into someone’s neck, bodies dropping to the floor, a sick sense of satisfaction, blood on his hands._

He blinks, and he’s not sure whether the things he just saw were memories or a nightmare – he isn’t sure of that often, these days.

He groans, rubbing his eyes as he sits up. He’s probably just tired.

He pushes the blankets away, and walks to the wardrobe, pulling out a dark green shirt and brown pants. He looks down as his bare foot touches leather, and he sees the weapons bag he stored his chakram and dagger away in.

_Sharp metal, ripping through flesh and bone, bodies dropping to the floor, blood on his hands._

_Stop it._

He blinks again, pushing the images away to a remote corner of his mind. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the past, doesn’t have time to work through the guilt and the pain – after all, Geralt needs him right now, and that’s all that matters.

҉ ҉ ҉

He’s sitting on his knees in the garden, hand closing around a particularly nasty thistle, trying to yank it from the dirt. He ignores the ache in his muscles, the prickle of the thorns in his skin, the welts in his fingers, as he pulls and pulls. The thistle doesn’t budge a bit, and he lets go, resting the heel of his hand against his forehead, breathing deeply, trying to push the annoyance and desperation away.

He just needs to get this _fucking weed_ out of the garden, so he can finally harvest the tomatoes and zucchini for dinner tonight, so he can teach Rhirthi a new recipe. The boy is talented – so incredibly talented, and Jaskier knows he has a lot of potential. Both as a cook and as a person.

He sighs again, and looks up as he hears laughter in the woods behind the cottage, where Geralt is playing hide and seek with the kids. Jaskier had politely declined when his love had asked him if he wanted to join. He’d love to, he really would, he is just so incredibly tired.

Tired of not getting enough sleep at night, but also tired of having to keep up his smile for his love and the kids. After all, they don’t need to see how much everything is affecting him – Geralt’s nightmares, the visions that plague him whenever he closes his eyes, the agony of not knowing what his Witcher went through in the Keep, the pain of being shut out by his love.

He closes his hand around the thistle again, pushing away the pain in his fingers and in his chest, trying to pull the weed out once more. It still doesn’t budge, and he feels tears of anger and frustration well up in his eyes – he cries so easily, these days, he’s noticed.

He lets go of the plant with an exasperated huff, taking the small gardening shovel from where it’s lying next to him, jamming the tip in the base of the thistle, biting his lip in frustration as he stabs at the plant.

A hand on his shoulder stops him, and he looks up at Yennefer. She lowers herself on her knees next to him in the dirt, taking the shovel gently from his hand. “What the fuck, Jaskier? Calm down, it’s just a plant, not a Nilfgaardian.” Her voice is airy and light, and she chuckles at her own joke, but there’s a hint of concern lacing her tone.

Jaskier laughs as well, ignoring the sharp jab in the pit of his stomach at the reminder of what he did in the Keep. “ **Sorry,** ” he signs, “ **just…** ”

“Tired?” she fills in for him, and he nods. “You need to sleep.”

He frowns at her, shaking his head. “ **No, it’s fine, don’t worry about me.** ”

“I know you want to spare his feelings, Jask. I know, alright? I can read minds, remember?”

He raises his eyes to the azure sky as she taps the side of her head, raising her eyebrow at him. “ **Seriously, stop doing that, it’s so annoying.** ”

She shrugs. “Well, if you don’t want me to read your mind, stop fucking hiding how tired you are.”

He sighs, shaking his head slightly, carding his dirty hand through his hair. “ **I’m not.** ”

“You are.”

“ **It’s fine.** ”

“It’s not.”

He rolls his eyes again. “ **Fine, maybe I _am_ tired. So what? I just don’t want to make him afraid to ask me for help. I don’t care if I have to stay awake a billion nights by his side, as long as he feels safe and loved.**”

She smiles at him. “I know, Jask. I understand. But you’re tired, I can tell.”

He shakes his head, lifting his face to the sky, closing his eyes for a second. “ **Give me two minutes and I’ll be fine.** ”

“Go take a nap, Jask.”

“ **But-** “

“He won’t find out. You just take half an hour, and I’ll distract him with” she waves her hand through the air, shrugging “a game of tag with the kids or something. I don’t know.” She looks at him again. “Just go to sleep.”

He sighs, pushing himself off the ground. “ **Thank you.** ”

She shrugs again, wiping the dirt off her dress as she stands up as well. “Yeah, well, don’t worry about it. That’s what friends do.”

He frowns at her, nose scrunching in mock disgust. “ **Ew, we’re not friends. I hate you.** ”

She laughs, flipping him off before she turns around and walks to the gate at the back of the garden. “Hate you too, Jask.”

҉ ҉ ҉

The nap does wonders to his mood and energy, and afterwards, he goes down to the kitchen, smiling when he sees a zucchini and a few tomatoes on the countertop – probably harvested by Yennefer.

He’s joined by Rhirthi and Ciri right as he’s scratching Moon behind her ears, the tips of his fingers disappearing in her snow white fur. The cat yawns and stretches, purring loudly from her spot on the windowsill, curled around the pots of plants. He keeps an eye on her, as he gives Rhirthi a knife and a cutting board for the vegetables – he swears to the gods, one day that cat will knock down at least one of the plants, and he does _not_ feel like having to scrape dirt and leaves off the kitchen floor and counters.

Ciri, as usual, is sitting on the kitchen table, nimble fingers playing with one of the metal balls of her sling – a memento she seems to be carrying around constantly – as she translates Jaskier’s signs to Rhirthi. The boy is starting to learn the basics of sign language, and he’s a proficient student, but some things still need some verbal explanation that Jaskier simply cannot give.

He’s in the middle of telling Rhirthi about the best way to bake the zucchini, when a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around him, trapping his upper arms to his body. He cranes his neck to look at Geralt, as his love lays his chin on his shoulder.

“ **Geralt, please,** ” he struggles a bit against his Witcher’s grip, though he’s smiling from ear to ear, “ **I can’t teach your son how to sauté the vegetables like this.** ”

“Oh?” He shivers a bit at Geralt’s voice in his ear. “He’s just as much your son as he is mine.”

He barely hears Rhirthi mumble “son?” next to him, and almost misses it when Ciri whispers “just roll with it” back at the teen.

Jaskier laughs, shaking his head slightly. “ **Fine, but still. I have to teach him. We can cuddle later.** ”

He feels a small kiss being pressed to his ear. “I’ll hold you to that promise,” Geralt mutters.

And with that, the strong arms around him are gone. Jaskier clears his throat, and raises his hands – freely – again, to tell Rhirthi about the spices he should add to the vegetables.

҉ ҉ ҉

His fingers tingle as he runs them through Geralt’s hair, the silver locks soft against his skin as he combs out the knots, readying them to be washed. A few years ago, he would’ve hummed while doing it, but right now they sit in comfortable silence, his love leaning his head back, eyes closed.

When he’s done, he softly pushes against the back of Geralt’s head. His love gets the message and leans forward, dunking his head under water for a second or two, rubbing at his eyes when he comes up again.

Jaskier takes the bottle of apple shampoo Yen got for him at the market, putting some in his hands, rubbing them together before massaging the soap into Geralt’s hair. His love hums in content as Jaskier’s blunt fingernails scrape against his scalp lightly.

Jaskier laughs, pressing a small kiss right below his love’s ear, careful not to get any shampoo in his mouth.

“You’ve been smiling a lot today,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier’s fingers still in the silver locks for a split second, before resuming their work. “You haven’t smiled this much in a while,” Geralt continues, “did something happen?”

Jaskier wipes his hands on the towel that’s hanging over his shoulder, as Geralt turns around in the bath, one arm leaning on the rim, the fingers of his other hand – only four, Jaskier can’t help but notice – lightly brushing against the Bard’s knee. Jaskier shrugs, then shakes his head. “ **Nothing special, just a good day.** ”

“Hmm.” Geralt doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but smiles anyways, leaning forward to press a kiss to Jaskier’s lips. “You know you’re beautiful when you smile, right?”

Jaskier laughs, motioning for Geralt to turn back around. “ **You have to rinse the shampoo out, or it’s going to dry and cake.** ”

“Right, and that would be a disaster, of course.” Geralt smiles and rolls his eyes at him. Jaskier laughs back, though it falls the second his love has turned around and ducked under the surface of the water again.

Geralt’s right – he _is_ smiling more. He blames it on the fact that he’s been able to sleep a bit during the afternoon, but he doesn’t want to tell Geralt. He doesn’t want to let his love know how tired he is, how the nightmares take a toll on him – Geralt would just feel guilty, and shut Jaskier out even more in an attempt to lift the burden off the Bard’s tired shoulders. The last thing Jaskier wants is for his love to suffer all alone. He cannot let that happen.

All he wants is to fix his love – take away the nightmares and the memories and the guilt and the pain – until Geralt is as good as new.

He closes his eyes, as his love comes up again, wiping the water from his eyes. Blood, pain, sharp steel, and dark stones flash behind Jaskier’s eyelids as he blinks, and he pushes the images away along with the guilt and the hurt.

He smiles as his love turns around, and hands Geralt the towel that was lying behind him, watching as his love dries his hair. He doesn’t mention the fact that his Witcher is tangling it all up again, after Jaskier had untangled it all so carefully mere minutes ago. It doesn’t matter, he’ll happily do it all over again.

He blinks. _Blood, pain, bones, fear, stones, guilt, sleep deprivation._ He pushes it away again, as he stands up, walking to the wash basin to get the hairbrush that is lying on it. He looks at his reflection, startling a bit at the dark circles under his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. He sighs, stealing a glance of Geralt’s back for a brief second as his Witcher dries off.

He looks at his own reflection again, trying out different smiles until he finds the one that looks the most convincing. He plasters it on his face, before he turns around and walks to Geralt to brush out his hair again.

Right now, what Geralt needs is for Jaskier to fix him up until he’s as good as new.

And maybe, one day, Jaskier will come around to fixing himself, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can still find me on tumblr, @queen-squish.


	19. Oh, My Sunlight, Sunlight, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, oh dear, here we go. I've been nervous about posting this chapter, because I'm not sure what you guys are going to think about it - but it's time, so let's do this. Song for this chapter is Fear Of The Water by SYML.
> 
> Massive warning for this chapter: Suicide.  
> The moments leading up to it, and the moments themselves are very graphic, and just... a Lot. A large part of the rest of this fic is going to deal with the fallout of what happens in this chapter. I am going to explain what led to me writing the story like this, in the end notes, so maybe read that if you're interested, idk.
> 
> If you or someone you know is suffering from suicidal thoughts, don't hesitate to use a [crisis line](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines), or reach out to someone you know and trust. Of course, I'm always right here if you need someone to talk to, or you can find me on tumblr, @queen-squish.

He wakes up in the middle of the night again as Geralt stirs slightly, arms twitching, legs pulling up until he’s curled up in bed. He’s sweating and shivering at the same time, face contorting in fear and pain.

Jaskier takes his love in his arms. He wishes he could sing to Geralt, shush him with his voice until his love is peaceful again, but he can’t. All he can do is hold his love, hoping the nightmare will pass at his touch, as it sometimes does. Though, other times it doesn’t, and Geralt will stay up the rest of the night, scared to go back to sleep.

His love thinks he doesn’t know, thinks he doesn’t notice it when his Witcher sits on the edge of the bed the rest of the night, but he does – he knows, he notices.

Geralt calms down, fortunately, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, his breathing evening out bit by bit as Jaskier gently rubs his back, fingers trailing over the badly healed scars.

It’s been three weeks since they rescued him from the Keep, four since Jaskier had a full night’s rest. The tiredness is weighing him down, and the naps he frequently takes when Geralt is busy with Roach, Yenna, or the kids, aren’t enough anymore. He still hasn’t told his love about them, though, still can’t bring himself to show Geralt the toll the nightmares take on him, how tired he is. He knows Geralt would feel guiltier than he already does, even though none of this is his fault, and the last thing he wants is to cause his love more pain.

He sighs, burying his nose in his love’s hair. He still doesn’t smell like bread and the ocean, and Jaskier doubts he ever will again.

His eyes land on the weapons bag in the corner, barely illuminated by the moonlight. It still serves as a reminder of what has happened, what he’s done, just like the trees with their bark stripped off in the forest behind the cottage. The reminders still remain, even when he tries to push the memories away, hide the weapons where he can’t see them, and the callouses on his fingers turn soft again.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t wash the blood off his tired hands.

He sighs again, closing his eyes as he inhales, maybe smelling a faint hint of apples and grass, but he’s probably just making things up. He’s tired, after all.

Geralt stirs again, and Jaskier tenses, his heartbeat only slowing down when his love stills again, sighing contentedly in his sleep. Maybe tonight, he won’t wake up, after all.

His love frowns, shaking his head slightly, mumbling “no” over and over again, and Jaskier knows he’ll have to sneak away tomorrow afternoon to take a nap, again.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been five weeks since he found Geralt, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to get a decent night’s rest. His tired mind can’t help but feel a little resentment at being woken up every night over and over again, at Geralt not wanting to talk about what he’s dreaming, at feeling sad and lonely even with his love right there.

Sometimes, Geralt gets a distant look in his amber eyes, his hands balling into fists by his side, sweat gathering on his brow as he trembles. It’ll always take a few seconds for him to snap out of it when Jaskier tries to get his attention, and afterwards, he’s quiet, pulling in on himself, and Jaskier wishes his love would just let him in for once.

He doesn’t say it, though, doesn’t show the frustration and sadness that he always seems to feel these days. He doesn’t want his love to feel even more guilty than he already does, doesn’t want Geralt to think he’s not happy that his Witcher’s home again – because he _is,_ he _is_ so unbelievably happy to get to wake up next to his love, to hold his hand again, to know he’s not alone and that Geralt is _safe_ and _right there._

But he knows Geralt has a hard time believing it himself, doesn’t always seem to realizes he’s home, he’s safe, and everything will be alright. And Jaskier doesn’t know how to make him believe it, not when he doesn’t know what his love went through.

And Geralt just won’t let him in.

Sometimes, after waking up from another nightmare, his love will look at him with a strange glint in those amber eyes – distrusting, paranoid – until Jaskier signs something to him. Only then will his love relax. Geralt hasn’t told him why, even though Jaskier has asked several times. Not only that, but Geralt will tell him next to nothing about the imprisonment, leaving the Bard feeling like he’s on the outside, helplessly looking in as his Witcher is caught in the storm by himself.

Jaskier still doesn’t know the story behind the seven thin, red lines on his Witcher’s shoulder.

He wishes he could be alright with not knowing, content with simply holding his love through this storm, but he can’t. He’s tired – of sneaking away a few hours every day to take a nap, of waking up every night to calm Geralt down, of having to see that distant look in his love’s eyes, of feeling lonelier and lonelier as the weeks pass. He wishes he wasn’t so frustrated, wishes he could be more patient, more supportive, but he can’t.

And he hates himself for that.

He sighs when Geralt stirs in his sleep again, face contorting in a grimace as he curls in on himself. Jaskier scoots closer, holding his love in his arms, waiting for him to either calm down or wake up.

He feels guilty when a part of his mind hopes Geralt won’t wake up. Hopes he doesn’t have to see that distrusting look in those amber eyes. Hopes he doesn’t have to lay in bed all night knowing that Geralt won’t sleep – meaning _he_ won’t be able to sleep. Hopes he doesn’t have to shush his love over and over again. Hopes he doesn’t have to tell Geralt everything’s going to be okay when he himself is losing hope that it will be.

He’s starting to think it won’t ever be alright. He’s tired, he’s lonely, he’s had enough, and sharp pangs of guilt carve into the inside of his chest over and over again, because he _shouldn’t_ be. He should be supportive, should be patient, should be there for Geralt, but he _can’t_. He can’t.

And it’s killing him.

Geralt calms down again, breathing evening out. Jaskier sighs, and carefully lets go, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He gets up, slipping out of the door with one last look at his Witcher, before he sneaks down the stairs.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but he keeps walking. Past the kitchen, where Moon is sleeping on the countertop, through the living room, into the garden. The grass is soft beneath his bare feet as he walks through the yard, around the pond, past the vegetable and herb gardens, past the two hens and Roach’s stable.

_Dark stones, a throne room littered with bodies, satisfaction and horror deep in his gut, blood on his hands._

He pushes the memories away.

At the gate to the forest behind the house, he turns back, looking at the cottage. It’s shrouded in darkness and peace, the moon and stars glittering above it, casting it in a soft light. He turns around, leaving the garden.

The first fallen leaves rustle under his feet as he walks through the forest, the beginnings of an autumn chill on his skin, mist around his ankles. It’s quiet except for his own footsteps, dark except for what little light the stars and the moon provide. His own breath fogs in front of his face as he walks deeper into the forest.

He stops at the bench under the maple tree for a brief second, and the memories of the proposal, of the griffin, of finding the ring on his finger again flood him. The hills of Lyria are calm and quiet in front of him, and he wonders if he’ll ever get used to the view, and if the sight of the bench under the old maple tree will one day hurt less.

He turns to his left, and continues walking. He’s numb, mind blank, devoid of any thoughts or feelings or hopes. He registers the cold on his skin, the rustling of the leaves under his feet, but he lets the sensations pass like birds high in the sky, far away, gone as quickly as they came.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, and reasonably, he knows he should turn back – after all, there’s no telling what could be residing in these woods, and it’s too cold for him in his thin nightclothes, barefoot. He just keeps walking, though, a distant curiosity at the back of his throat, to see where his feet will take him.

He finally stops in front of a cliff, a hundred-foot drop in front of him. He remembers this place. It’s where Geralt fought the griffin all those months ago, where Jaskier pulled him away from the ledge, where he saw his Witcher for the first time since losing his voice.

He leans forward a bit, near the edge, looking down. He can’t make out a lot – the ground invisible under the red and orange crowns of the trees. He remembers the winter, and the sight of the bare tree branches, ready to spike whoever was unfortunate enough to fall off the cliff.

A distant part of him wonders if these leaf-filled branches would break his fall, were he to slip off the ledge, and he wonders if he’d survive. Probably not, he decides.

It is tempting to find out, though. It is tempting to just take that one step forward, to let his body go weightless, lay his life in the hands of the gods, find out if Destiny deems him worthy to survive, see if it’s painful to land, take a peek behind the curtain between this life and the next, if there is one.

It is tempting. But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. He won’t.

He wonders what would happen if he didn’t survive, though. Maybe it would take a while for his family to find his body, maybe they would assume Nilfgaard had something to do with it, maybe he would be no more than dust and bones by the time they found out he’s right there.

He sighs a bit, the corners of his mouth pulling up slightly at the thought of becoming one with the flowers, of letting leaves cover him as he lays there, a hundred feet below, in peace. He wonders if Geralt would ever forgive him.

Probably not.

But then again, Jaskier has a hard time forgiving Geralt for getting abducted by Nilfgaard – no matter how many times he tells himself it wasn’t his love’s fault. He can’t help but feel that little bit of resentment that makes his mind reel in horror and disgust, that makes guilt carve at his insides.

He wonders if the guilt would go away if he was lying a hundred feet below. He supposes so.

The cold nips at his toes, making itself at home in his tired bones, along with the loneliness that’s been residing there for weeks.

He imagines taking that step forward, letting himself float down with the wind that’s carding through his hair. He imagines his bones shattering as he hits the ground. He wonders if it would feel like it did when he woke up without Geralt in the beachside cottage. He wonders if they’ll heal right this time around, because right now it feels like they healed all wrong – like they’re fragile and painful and sticking out at all the wrong angles, restricting his movements until he can’t breathe anymore.

He’s a broken mirror, pieces of himself scattered in all the places he’s been, in the skin of all the people he’s loved, lost and strewn out until he’s no more than an empty frame.

He stands there, toes over the edge as he looks down at the treetops below him, at the tendrils of fog peeking out between the branches. It’s tempting to fall, to let go. Maybe he’ll be able to breathe for once, maybe he’ll find the burdens of his sorrows and worries gone as he hangs in the air, weightless, maybe he’ll be at peace once more as he hits the ground.

Maybe Geralt will be better off without him. Maybe he’ll find someone to love him better than Jaskier can. Someone to hold him through his nightmares, to sing him back to sleep, to laugh Geralt’s sorrows away when the amber eyes grow distant, to tell him it will all be okay, to talk about the torture with. Someone who can, because Jaskier can’t and Geralt won’t let him in, and he’s tired of this guilt that rests on his shoulders, of the frustration at his own inabilities.

He’s tired. So incredibly tired.

_If this life is meant for me, then why does it hurt so much?_

Taking that step forward is so tempting.

He could. He should. He might.

Because what happens if he doesn’t? He’ll go back to the cottage, fall asleep and wake up as Geralt has another nightmare, stay awake the rest of the night, be tired. Take care of Ciri and Rhirthi, put on a brave face for them and Geralt, ask Yennefer to distract his Witcher for half an hour so he can sneak upstairs and take a nap, try not to look too dishevelled when he goes back downstairs as to not alert Geralt to the fact that he’s so tired. Have dinner, watch the others smile and laugh, try to fake it, fail more miserably each and every day, see Geralt looking at him suspiciously, lie and say everything’s okay. Get the kids to bed, bid Yennefer goodnight, ignore the concern and pity in her eyes, go to bed, fall asleep for an hour or two, wake up in the middle of the night as Geralt has another nightmare. And repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

Over and over again, as he grows more and more tired each and every day, as he grows more and more resentful and bitter towards the person he loves most, as he loses more and more hope. What’s the point?

_There is no point._

He’d hoped that by finding Geralt again, he would find himself, and things would go back to normal. He’d hoped that once he had his Witcher back, he would be happy for the rest of his life. He’d hoped Geralt would let him in again, and that they’d be able to heal together, spend all their days together in content.

He’d hoped a great deal many of things.

How naïve he had been.

He’s tired. So, so incredibly tired. He just wants to let go, to be at peace, to maybe even find happiness again. Or at least to get rid of this misery that resides in his bones and his heart.

He moves one leg forward a bit, letting it hang in the void, balancing on the edge of the cliff on one foot. He’d just have to lean forward, and he’d be free, like a bird in the sky, until the earth claims him.

The thought makes him smile, genuinely, for the first time in weeks, and he finds himself reaching for that fleeting ray of happiness, finds himself leaning forward, chasing it.

His other foot slips off the edge, and he’s weightless, the wind whipping around his face, pulling at his clothes and hair as he falls. At some point he must’ve turned around, because suddenly he’s looking up at the sky, watching the stars and the moon in the inky void.

He’s floating and falling at the same time, all his worries and fears lifting off him as he plummets to the ground. A branch hits his arm. He doesn’t register the pain.

His leg cracks as he hits another tree, but he’s numb – he doesn’t feel anything, except for slight anticipation, fluttering in his chest like a wounded bird. It’ll all be over soon, he knows.

He hears a loud, distinct _snap,_ and the world goes to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for all of you who are thinking "what the fuck?" right now, trust me, you're not alone.
> 
> I always have a plan for where I want my fic to go, but unless I have any particular scenes in mind, I just start writing. I always try to put myself in the shoes of whoever this chapter's POV is from, and I try to imagine what I would do in that situation if I were them. That's just how I write. Unfortunately, sometimes, I can't help but let the mood of the day slip through in my writing.
> 
> So, I start writing, with the endgoal in mind, as I imagine what I would do. I think you can see where this is going.
> 
> I was not in a great mindset that day. Not at all, and that slipped through. I just see wherever my hands take me, and that day my hands took me to the edge of a cliff and a very dark place. I was planning on ending this plotline at the last possible second, I was planning to put an end to all this before it could happen, but I couldn't. As I said, I try to imagine what I would do if I were them, and I see where my hands take me - so, I, for some reason, could not stop this from happening. I tried, but the story just ran off without me. Trust me, I was as shocked as you probably all are right now.
> 
> I could've rewritten this chapter, I could've made a happy ending right there and then with the promise of healing in the future, but I didn't. As I've basically told you like five times in the past few paragraphs: I write wherever the story takes me, which means that whatever happens, feels natural. And I feel like, if I would've written something else to spare your feelings, it wouldn't have felt natural, and I would've eventually grown to resent the way this story has gone.
> 
> After all is said and done: I surprised even myself, that day, all those weeks ago when I wrote this. I hadn't realized my mindset had been that dark, and it schocked me. But this was also very therapeutic for me to write - not just this chapter, but the next ones as well.
> 
> If you don't like where this story has gone, or if you feel uncomfortable, I understand. I really, truly do. But I'm not gonna apologize for something that made me finally face my - frankly, quite poor - mental health, and that helped me... well, I don't know how to describe it. It just helped me.
> 
> If you made it to the end of these notes, holy shit, you're a beast and I love you so much for the fact that you read all my sappy ramblings. I don't know how to end this rant, I'm usually better with words (at least that's what I keep telling myself). Uhm. Yeah. See you next week, I guess. (At least in these notes, I have like other WIPS going on as well)


	20. All That Was Shown To Me, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> First of all, I just wanna say thank you for all your kind and supportive comments! I unfortunately did not have the mental energy to actually,,, reply (say 'thank you, exam season'), but if you left a comment, just picture me doing a Violent uwu and almost crying, or something like that.
> 
> That being said! Sorry for making y'all wait so long, I know last chapter ended a bit,,, abruptly (I'm not gonna say cliffhanger cause,,, well), but here's the new chapter! Enjoy some angst, babes!!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!
> 
> OH! ALSO! The song for this chapter is Chasing Cars by Sleeping At Last. 10/10 I cried.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. He frowns, reaching over to the spot where Jaskier had been lying. The blankets are still crumpled, are still slightly warm – he’s not been gone for long.

He gets up, walking into the hall. The bathroom is empty, and he follows Jaskier’s scent of cinnamon and blueberries down the stairs, through the living room, into the garden.

He wonders why his love went outside, why he went into the forest, as he follows cinnamon and blueberries through the gate. The fallen leaves rustle under his feet a bit, the cold night air kissing his skin through his thin nightclothes, as a cool breeze cards through his hair.

He stops at the bench under the old maple tree for a second, looking at the moonlit hills of Lyria, as memories of the proposal, the griffin, and the finding of Jaskier’s ring present themselves to him. He smiles, as the fondness and love they’re laced with settle in his chest.

He continues, following cinnamon and blueberries through the woods. He’s a bit concerned as to why Jaskier went into the forest at this hour, but he knows there are no monsters in these woods – he always makes sure of that. He’s looking forward to seeing Jaskier again, though, to hold him in his arms.

No matter how many times he’s done it, he’ll never get tired of holding his love.

He recognizes this path, these trees, and he realizes the scent leads to the cliff where he fought the griffin. He smiles. Maybe Jaskier just wanted to get lost in memories of simpler times. He doesn’t blame him – everything’s been so complicated, lately.

He frowns as he reaches the cliff, but Jaskier’s not there. He shrugs, following his love’s scent to the edge. After looking at the trees in the distance for a few moments, he turns back around, searching for where Jaskier went next. He frowns again as he realizes there is no trail that leads away, and the cinnamon and blueberries stop there.

At the edge of the cliff.

_No._

Blind panic courses through his veins as he turns back around, looking down. Some sand has slipped away at the very edge, in the shape of a heel. _No._

There are broken branches in the trees a hundred feet below, some hanging limply by a few fibres, and Geralt can see from the angle that something heavy must’ve hit them from above. _No._

He squints, and there might be a figure on the ground, a hundred feet below, broken and small. _No._

_No no no no no no._

He takes a few steps back, hands trembling as his mind scrambles for something to do, a way to get down there.

He turns around, sprinting through the forest as quickly as his legs will carry him, bare feet slipping a few times over fallen leaves. The garden gate slams shut behind him, as does the door to the living room. He rushes up the stairs, barging into Yennefer’s room.

“Yen! Wake up!” She blinks at him, pushing herself up, violet eyes bleary and weary, taking in his dishevelled state.

She rubs at her eyes as she sits up fully. “Geralt? Wh-“

“It’s Jaskier. I think something happened to him and I need a portal.” His words are rushed, his voice clipped and strained, as his hand tightens around the doorknob.

She blinks and frowns, as she pushes her blankets away, quickly pulling on her chamber robe. She walks past him, and he follows her down the stairs. “Where to?”

He swallows thickly. “There’s a cliff in the forest, about five hundred yards from the old maple tree.”

She nods as she walks into the garden, and he continues, quieter this time: “I need a portal to the foot of the cliff.”

She stills, then turns around, violet eyes wide and concerned. “You don’t think…?”

He pushes back his tears, swaying gently in his spot as panic and fear course through his veins. “Maybe,” he whispers.

She nods curtly, closing her eyes for a split second as if to brace herself. “Right,” she mumbles. “Right.”

She opens a portal, and he immediately walks through, not bothering to check if it’s safe. He looks around, reaching his senses out for a heartbeat, a breath, a small whiff of blueberries and cinnamon. The cliff is about a hundred feet away, and he takes off towards it, running as quickly as his tired and trembling legs can carry him.

He hopes he’s wrong, by the gods, how he hopes he’s wrong.

His heart sinks to the pit of his stomach when he finds out he’s not.

“Jaskier!” He falls on his knees next to the broken and bruised body of his love, hands ghosting over Jaskier’s lithe form as he sobs, choking on the cold night air. He barely registers Yen lowering herself on the ground next to him, barely registers her crying, barely registers her bending forward, resting her forehead against Jaskier’s chest.

He barely registers her violet eyes widening, and her head turning, as she presses her ear against his love’s chest.

He only sees Jaskier’s face, bruised and bloody, he only sees the way his love’s limbs are bent at unnatural angles, he only sees the pool of blood that expands over and between the fallen leaves.

He rests his forehead against Jaskier’s, sobbing quietly. _This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening._

Jaskier’s supposed to be alright, they’re supposed to be safe, everything’s supposed to be alright.

He lets his tears flow freely as he clutches his love’s head in his hands. Jaskier’s skin is still warm, and he knows this must’ve happened mere minutes before he arrived at the cliff’s edge. If only he’d woken up sooner, if only he’d run instead of walked when he noticed his love missing, if only he could’ve stopped this happening, if only, if only, if only.

If only Jaskier’s broken and bruised body wasn’t lying here at the bottom of the cliff.

If only it had been Geralt instead.

A push at his shoulder, then Yennefer’s voice, loud and demanding: “Geralt!” He doesn’t look up, doesn’t stop sobbing against his love’s skin. What does it even matter anymore? Nothing matters if Jaskier’s dead. He wants to lay there, next to his love, become one with the flowers and the grass along with Jaskier’s body.

Another push at his shoulder, harder this time, Yennefer’s voice becomes louder, shrill with desperation, demanding his attention: “Geralt, get the fuck up, he’s not dead!”

He does look up at that, hope flaring up in his chest, as Yennefer stands, opening a portal. “Quickly! Carry him through, I have to start healing him as soon as possible.”

He nods, dumbfounded, and swallows thickly before gently bringing his arms under Jaskier’s body, lifting him up. He flinches as he feels bones shift and move against his arms, as Jaskier’s head lolls back at an uncomfortable angle, his arms hanging limply by his side. He cringes as he sees one of his love’s ribs sticking out of his skin, and he nearly throws up at the sight.

He’s seen this before, he remembers, as he walks through the portal, gently laying his love’s body on the table in Yennefer’s study after she’s cleared the surface in one swipe, glass vials and loose papers alike scattering on the floor. He’s seen it before, people falling to their deaths, seen the unnatural angles and the blood and the bones and the flesh, but this time is different.

This time it’s the love of his life.

Yennefer pushes him back, and he stumbles a step backwards, eyes still trained on Jaskier’s broken body. He clenches his fists, tries to strain his ears, sighs softly when he hears a fluttering in his love’s chest. He’s still alive. ~~For now.~~

“Go get some water.” Yennefer’s tone is sharp and demanding, with an edge of desperation. She doesn’t look back, her hands ghosting over Jaskier’s form, shining with a soft light. “Now, Geralt!”

He nods dumbfoundedly, and takes another step backwards. He can’t go, though, he can’t lose sight of Jaskier. What if he dies? What if this is the last time Geralt can hold his hand? What if this is the last time he hears the weak heartbeat? What if he leaves and comes back and Jaskier is dead? What if these are the last precious, fragile moments he has with his love?

He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to leave his love behind, doesn’t want to risk losing the time he has left with Jaskier. He shakes his head, stumbling forward a few steps, rounding the table and kneeling on the stone floor, just like he did all those weeks in the Keep. The memories resurface but he pushes them away by resting his head against the side of Jaskier’s face, breathing in blueberries and cinnamon for what might be the last time in his life.

“I love you,” he whispers, hands trembling as he softly cards his fingers through the brown hair, his love’s blood sticking to his skin, his other hand resting in Jaskier’s, their rings bumping into each other. “I love you. Please don’t die, please don’t go.” His voice breaks, as a soft sob wracks his body. “Please don’t leave me behind.”

He stands up again, hands and heart aching as he lets go of his love. He takes a few trembling steps backwards, not yet able to turn his back on his love’s broken and bruised body. “Please don’t go,” he whispers one last time, before he turns, half-running to the well in front of the cottage.

His hands tremble and the bucket clangs against the stones as he drops it into the well. Tears haze over his vision, and he barely registers the burn of the course rope in his hands when he heaves the bucket back up. Cold water sloshes over the sides, over his arms and the front of his shirt.

He walks back inside as quickly as he can, and he’s met with Ciri and Rhirthi at the bottom of the stairs. _No, no, not now._ He can’t do this right now, can’t tell them what happened to Jaskier, can’t bear the burden of their pain along with his own. He can’t be the father they need right now, not when he’s on the verge of collapse.

“What happened?” Ciri asks, green eyes wide and concerned and _by the gods, he can’t do this right now._

He shakes his head slightly, closing his eyes as the weight of the world lands on his shoulders. “I-“ he swallows around his dry tongue, the water sloshing in the bucket as his hands tremble. “Something happened,” he clenches his jaw at her fearful expression, at the confusion and worry in Rhirthi’s sea-green eyes, “to Jaskier,” he mumbles. “Please, stay here, I- we-“ he shakes his head again, and Rhirthi nods, laying his hand on Ciri’s shoulder, who looks like she’s about to faint.

Geralt nods, gathering the broken pieces of himself before he walks back into the living room, to Yennefer’s study. He drops the bucket on the floor unceremoniously, where it almost tips over, as he rushes to Jaskier, falling on his knees next to his love once again.

He sighs in relief as he feels the fluttering heartbeat beneath his fingers. It’s weak, but it’s _there,_ and that’s all that matters. He barely notices it when Triss stands next to him, her hands ghosting over Jaskier’s body, shining with a soft glow. He doesn’t pay attention to the fact that she’s suddenly here. Yennefer must’ve called her, he concludes, and Triss must’ve portalled in from Vizima.

To save Jaskier.

Yennefer returns, softly tipping his love’s head up, slipping a vial with a bright blue potion between his lips. He doesn’t choke on it, which concerns Geralt, because reasonably, he _should,_ but he _doesn’t._ He does take a few deep, ragged breaths, and Geralt can hear his heartbeat getting that slightest bit stronger.

He leans his forehead on the side of Jaskier’s head, breathing in cinnamon and blueberries and blood and bone. He wonders if he could’ve done anything to prevent this from happening, if he could’ve gotten up sooner, if he could’ve held his love tighter, keeping him in bed, if he could’ve listened better, paid more attention when the blue circles under his love’s eyes deepened, when he seemed to smile less and less.

He wonders if this was all some stupid accident. He wonders if he could’ve stopped it if it wasn’t. _~~His fault his fault his fault his fault.~~_

_His fault._

Cinnamon and blueberries and blood and bone. He wants to climb up on the table, wants to hold his love’s broken and hurt body close, wants to bury his nose in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, feel his pulse against his skin, wants to chase the rest of the world away, wants to scare Destiny into healing Jaskier, wants to shield his love from the horrors of this life, wants to fight their monsters with silver and steel. He wants to feel Jaskier’s arms tighten around him, wants to watch those blue eyes open, crow’s feet at their corners as he smiles.

He would give anything to see Jaskier smile again.

He would let his love steal the oxygen from his lungs, break his own bones in order to heal Jaskier’s, empty his own veins to fill his love’s, break his heart apart if that helped Jaskier’s beat. He would give every piece of himself, if only that meant his love became whole again.

He sits there, knees pressed against the cold, stone floor, forehead against Jaskier’s curls, tears slipping down his cheeks – he doesn’t bother wiping them away. Triss and Yennefer are bustling around the room, giving their all to heal Jaskier, only talking when necessary, putting all their energy into keeping his love alive and breathing.

Cinnamon and blueberries and blood and bone. Broken skin, dark bruises, unnatural angles, the continuous _drip drip drip_ of crimson on the floor, mixing with his tears. Panic, fear, worry, pain, trembling hands and ragged breaths, skips of the frantic beats of his own heart whenever Jaskier’s falters for a split second. Praying, hoping, worrying, mumbling small words of encouragement and _please don’t leave me, please don’t go, I can’t live without you, my love._

The first rays of sunlight, a new dawn, a new day with and without his love at the same time. Possibly the last. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Pain in his knees, cold in his muscles, ache in his bones and in his heart. He doesn’t get up. Doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to. He can’t.

Hushed whispers between Yennefer and Ciri and Rhirthi. The steady _clack clack clack_ of a mortar in a pestle as Triss grinds up herbs. Birds outside the house, singing as if nothing has happened. The world moving on while his is standing still, has fallen away from beneath his feet. The cracking of bones as they slowly heal. He cringes at the sound.

Cinnamon and blueberries and blood and bone and Jaskier’s skin is pale and cold, and he’s laying still, so incredibly still, the flame of fear roaring ever higher in Geralt’s chest. The pool of blood on the floor has reached his knees, soaks through the fabric of his pants, onto his skin. The pulse beneath his forehead is still weak and fluttering, a bird trapped in a cage, begging to be freed but he can’t because he doesn’t want to lose it, lose Jaskier, lose his best friend, lose the love of his life.

He can’t.

His hand in Jaskier’s, fingers cold and pale and still. Not a single twitch, not a single tightening of the fingers against his, skin as cool as the engagement ring he’s still wearing.

The sun high in the sky. He doesn’t look up but he knows. Ciri brings him food he doesn’t eat, sits with Jaskier, cries. Rhirthi brings him water he doesn’t drink, sits with Jaskier, holds Ciri as she cries, sea-green eyes worried and pensive and sad. They leave after a while.

Cinnamon and blueberries and blood and bone and the sun is starting to set. Triss says something to him he can’t hear, his ears focused on the fluttering and unstable heartbeat in front of him. Yennefer lays a hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything. She understands. She leaves them alone.

The world outside the door to the study grows dark again. Jaskier is still and quiet, the only sounds his ragged breathing, his hesitant heartbeat, the occasional cracking of bones as magic forces them back into place, Geralt’s mutterings of _don’t go, please don’t go, don’t leave me, I can’t live without you, I love you, please don’t give up, I love you._

Jaskier hasn’t woken up yet. Geralt hopes his love will wake up again.

He’s so incredibly scared Jaskier won’t wake up again.

He hopes he’ll at least have one more day with Jaskier, even if it’s without him at the same time. Only a few more hours, he tells himself and his love, only a short while until the new dawn. _Don’t give up, please don’t let go, stay with me, don’t leave me behind, I love you_ – he whispers, voice broken and hurt like the body on the table in front of him.

Cinnamon and blueberries and blood and bone. He waits for the dawn of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also you can find me on tumblr, as always. @queen-squish


	21. Was Something Foreknown To Me, Sunlight, Oh, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> This chapter's song is 5AM by Amber Run. I'm pretty sure it's on my That's Just Wasteland, Baby-playlist. The link for that is somewhere in the notes of the previous chapters, if you're interested.  
> I think that's it for this chapter? Lots of angst, of course.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

The seconds tick by agonizingly slowly, the moon shifting in the night sky millimetre by millimetre, the soft but increasingly steady heartbeat in front of him the only indication of the passage of time.

It’s quiet, too quiet, more quiet than he can bear. It’s been hours since he last heard the soft talking of the Mages and the kids, since he heard Yennefer pacing, since he heard Triss trying to reassure her, since he heard Ciri crying, since he heard Rhirthi comforting her. He wonders what the time is, he wonders when the sun will rise, he wonders if he can bear the silence much longer.

He wonders if Jaskier will make the morning.

He wonders if he’ll have to dig a grave underneath the old maple tree tomorrow.

He wonders. And waits.

The tears have long dried, and there’s a dull ache behind his eyes, though it is no match for the hurt in his chest and heart, for the fear and guilt and agony that carves at his insides.

He wonders if he’s ever been in this much pain. He wonders why love has to hurt so much. He wonders if he’ll ever be happy again, if Jaskier were to leave him behind.

He drinks in cinnamon and blueberries like a man dying of thirst.

He wonders what happened, really. He wonders if this was intentional or accidental. He wonders if he could’ve done anything to prevent it, either way. He wonders if this is, at least partially, his fault.

He supposes so.

He wonders if Jaskier is ever going to be able to tell him. He wonders if he’ll ever find out even if his love wakes up, anyway. He wonders if he’ll ever stop wondering, even if Jaskier does tell him.

He wonders. And waits.

At least the steady dripping of blood has stopped, at least his love’s bones have stopped shifting beneath the pale and bruised skin, at least Jaskier’s heartbeat has gotten steadier, no longer fluttering like a trapped bird in the cage of his ribs.

The seconds tick by agonizingly slowly, the moon shifting in the night sky millimetre by millimetre, his own steady breaths and too-fast heartbeats the only indications of the passage of time.

He waits. And remembers.

҉ ҉ ҉

_The pub was rowdy and dirty, dim and stuffy, yet Jaskier laughed anyway, strutting around like he owned the place, belting out the song he had written mere hours ago._

_Geralt rolled his eyes, taking a long sip of his stale, lukewarm ale. ‘_ Toss a coin to your Witcher? _’ Geralt had heard a lot of weird things in his life, but this one really took the cake. Sure, the melody wasn’t half bad, and the crowd seemed to be pleased, singing along by the third time the chorus came around. And sure, they did throw him some glances that weren’t as disgusted as he was used to._

_But still. Weird lyrics, weird song, even weirder singer._

_He still hadn’t really figured out Jaskier. After all, the man had approached Geralt, a total stranger, out of the blue, following him around even after finding out he was, in fact, a Witcher, and continuing to follow him around after getting beaten up by some elves._

_Weird actions, weird words, even weirder man._

_Still, he couldn’t deny he was intrigued, at the very least. Not charmed, of course, absolutely not. Witchers don’t get_ charmed, _especially not by a snotty-nosed young adults like Jaskier, whose mouth ran faster than his fingers did on the strings of his lute, who seemed fearless and cocky and confident, despite all the adversity he’d already gone through in the few hours Geralt had known him._

_No, he was not charmed. He was definitely not fond. He was intrigued, at best._

_Jaskier plonked down in the seat opposite him, quick fingers taking the Witcher’s pint from underneath his nose. Any other person, Geralt would’ve been quick to smash their face into the table, but he let Jaskier be, let the Bard take a sip from the stale ale, face crunching in disgust as he shoved the glass back at the Witcher._

_“Gross,” he muttered. His face folded into a triumphant smile quickly after, though. “So, the new song is catching on, isn’t it? See, my dear Witcher? This,” he pointed between the two of them, “is mutually beneficial. You provide me with songs, I provide you with customers. Win-win.”_

_“Hmm.” Geralt took another sip of ale. The Bard had a point, this could work out well for the both of them._

_But it could also not. It could end in disaster and heartbreak and hurt, just like it always did for the people that got close to Geralt. Still, he was intrigued by the Bard – not charmed, of course – and maybe he was also a little curious to find out more about Jaskier._

_He sighed, rolling his eyes as the Bard hummed a little tune, soft and sweet, tapping his fingers on the table, blue eyes flitting across the room._

_Geralt would have to get used to the constant noise and movement and energy, though._

_And he’d have to hope that he didn’t end up getting hurt._

҉ ҉ ҉

He finds himself humming, for the first time in his life. It’s the little tune Jaskier was humming twenty-five years or so ago. It’s sweet, a bit sad, and Geralt wishes he knew the words for it.

He doesn’t know why he’s humming. If anything, it feels strange and foreign in his throat, the notes going the wrong ways, the melody lacklustre even in his own ears. Still, he does it, softly at first, then a bit louder.

He supposes some part of him thinks it might wake Jaskier up, that the off-tune humming will infuriate and annoy his love so much he opens his eyes to tell Geralt to _please stop, my ears can’t handle this abuse._ He smiles at the thought, and glances up, hopeful. Of course, Jaskier doesn’t wake, and the disappointment is crushing enough to make the Witcher stop.

He sighs, leaning his chin on the table, softly carding his fingers through his love’s hair, dried blood falling onto the floor in flakes. It reminds him of all those weeks ago, of the last time Jaskier was covered in blood. Except this time it’s his own.

For the first time in what seems like days, weeks, months, years, centuries, Geralt looks out the window. A brief glance is enough to tell him it’s five in the morning.

He turns back to Jaskier, landing a small kiss on his love’s temple. He finds himself whispering little encouragements against Jaskier’s skin – it seems like he can’t keep quiet, for once, desperate to fill the void his love has left in the room, in the house, in his heart. _You can do this,_ he whispers, _just a few more hours until dawn, please, just a little while longer, you can do this, don’t give up, don’t let go, I love you, please hold on, please, for me._

He whispers against his love’s skin. And waits.

Eventually, finally, at last, the dawn breaks. Golden rays of sunlight illuminate the study and highlight the bruises on his love’s face, the thinness and paleness of his skin, the blue sheen of veins that should not be visible.

The light fractures on the glass vials, shattered on the floor, sending bright spots and small rainbows all across the floor and walls.

It would’ve been a beautiful sight any other day.

He waits. And listens to the weak but steady heartbeat beneath his fingers, the shallow but regular breaths fanning against his skin. He waits, as the relief and joy of the new dawn fades away into the background, back into fear and worry.

He wonders if this will be the last sunrise with his love – and without at the same time. He wonders if it will be the first of many more. He wonders. And waits.

He’s too scared to hope. He’s too hopeful to say goodbye – not yet, at least.

He looks up at a hand on his shoulder, and meets Triss’ kind eyes. He hadn’t heard her come in, too focused on Jaskier and the signs that his love is still alive to notice. She smiles at him hesitantly. “We should move him, Geralt.” He frowns at her, and she clarifies: “We should take him upstairs, so he can recover in his own bed.”

“Will he?” Geralt almost startles at the sound of his own voice, too loud, too clear, breaking the stillness the study has been in for the past night. “Recover?”

She smiles at him again, but he can smell the sadness and fear in her flowery scent. He knows she’s not sure, he knows she’s about to tell a half-truth to mask the uncertainty. “I think so,” she says. ‘ _Think’. Not ‘know’. He might die either way._

He nods, still, and presses his forehead to the side of Jaskier’s head, pressing a quick kiss to his love’s temple, before standing up. His knees protest, arms trembling, and he has to hold on to the table when a sudden bout of dizziness washes over him. He blinks a few times, steadying himself, before sliding his arms under Jaskier’s body, slowly, softly.

He lifts his love up gently, pressing him against his chest. He cringes when a few bones still shift against his arms, but most of them seemed to have healed by now – though he can’t help but notice the odd angle of his love’s right leg. He decides not to pay too much attention to it for now.

Jaskier’s head lolls against his shoulder, and he presses a soft kiss to the bloodied brown curls, blueberries and cinnamon and blood and bone filling his head until he feels like he can’t breathe anymore. He waits a few seconds, arms tightening around his love ever so slightly, as he tries to ground himself in this world, to not lose himself in the fear and the desperation and the crushing, overwhelming love that seems to fill him.

“We’re going upstairs, alright?” he whispers to Jaskier’s curls. “And then you get to sleep in an actual bed, okay? So don’t give up just yet, don’t leave me before we make it there, please?” He might be imagining the small flutter Jaskier’s heart makes at the sound of his voice, but it’s probably nothing.

He tries not to jostle his love too much as he carries him through the living room, through the hall. For once, Moon doesn’t meow at them when she sees them from where she’s perched on the top of the kitchen counter, looking at them through the open door. She simply gets up, walking to the windowsill, curling herself around the potted plants that stand there.

He chuckles softly. “One day she’s going to knock a plant down,” he mutters to his love, “and I’m not looking forward to having to clean that up.” Jaskier doesn’t respond.

He continues, up the stairs. He pauses on the walkway. Yennefer’s bedroom door is open, he notices, and he catches a glimpse of her, passed out on the bed. Triss, who’s been following closely behind, catches him looking. “It took a lot of her energy to help Jaskier,” she whispers, even though there is probably no way talking too loud could wake Yennefer up.

He nods, walking into his and Jaskier’s bedroom, laying his love gently on the bed. He lingers for a few seconds, trying to rearrange his love’s limbs so he’s definitely comfortable, pushing some bloodied hair from Jaskier’s face, his fingers trailing across the large bruise covering the entire right side of his love’s face.

And though his love is bloodied and bruised and hurt, he looks peaceful – more peaceful than he’s looked in weeks, the dark circles under his eyes fading, the seemingly ever present frown he’s been wearing lately smoothed away. And maybe Geralt feels a pang of hurt that it took falling off a cliff for his love to look at least slightly happy again, but it doesn’t matter, really. This isn’t about him, this is about Jaskier.

He hears Triss sigh behind him. “I’ll leave you be,” she whispers.

She’s already halfway through the door when he turns. “Thank you.” She looks back, sad smile tugging at her lips, and he only now notices how incredibly tired she looks. He curses himself for not seeing sooner. He seems to be doing that a lot, lately – not seeing, not noticing. “For everything.”

She nods at him, then closes the door behind her. He sighs, wiping his hand over his face, seeing blood when he pulls it back. He frowns at his palm, then walks to the wardrobe, taking a set of clean clothes. He quickly washes himself in the bathroom, though Jaskier’s blood still stains his arms and his knees, where it has soaked through his clothes. He tries not to pay too much attention to it.

He takes a small bucket from under the wash basin, filling it with water from the always full and hot bath. He takes a washcloth and a towel with him.

In the bedroom, he strips his love of the bloodied and torn clothes, wincing slightly at the shards of bone that cling to the fabric in several places. He wets the washcloth, softly washing the blood and dirt from his love’s hair and face. Once again, his fingers linger on the large bruise on the right side of Jaskier’s head that doesn’t seem to have healed along with the rest of his body – not yet, at least.

He hopes it’ll get the chance to heal, eventually.

He softly washes the blood off Jaskier’s chest and arms, gently pushing his love up, laying Jaskier’s head against his shoulder to wash his back. He cringes at the new scars and the fragility of the bones underneath his fingers – but Jaskier’s still alive, and that’s all that matters.

When he washes Jaskier’s legs, he can’t help but notice the odd angle of his right leg, once again. It’s slightly turned to the side. But Geralt is, of course, no expert in these sorts of things, so he vows to ask Yen or Triss, later, if he gets the chance to.

When he’s done, he gently dresses his love again, in soft trousers and Jaskier’s favourite yellow shirt, tucking him into the blankets, propping his head at an angle with a few pillows.

He throws the water out of the window and the bloodied and torn clothes in the trash.

After, he gently lowers himself next to his love on the bed, laying on his side as he gently smooths Jaskier’s damp hair out of his face, eyes caught on the large bruise. He tries not to think too much about the fact that his love must’ve landed on that side when he fell.

He still wonders if it was an accident or not. He still wonders if he could’ve done anything to prevent it if it was. He still wonders if it was his fault if it wasn’t.

Either way, he should’ve loved Jaskier louder, should’ve let him know he loves him with every single thing he has, should’ve told him it’s a privilege to get to love him.

_Love, love, love._ Twenty years ago, it was a word he never dreamed of even thinking, but now he’s consumed by it, as it ignites every fibre of his being, coursing through his veins, settling in his chest, as he looks at Jaskier – _his love._

But then again, a small part at the back of his mind thinks, maybe that’s what chased Jaskier away. Maybe he doesn’t love Geralt anymore, maybe he didn’t want to live with the guilt. Maybe Geralt should’ve let him know that that’s okay, too, that he would love Jaskier without any strings attached. As long as his love is happy.

He doesn’t notice the sun starting to set, doesn’t notice the moon rising and the stars appearing, doesn’t notice a thing besides Jaskier’s steady and timid heartbeat. He hopes one day it will be as strong as it used to be.

He lays there, on his side, watching his love’s face as he sleeps. He watches. And waits.

For those blue eyes to open, for the hands on the blankets to move, for Jaskier to smile and sign to him to _stop staring, gods I can’t sleep when you keep looking at me, Geralt._

It doesn’t happen, but he hopes anyways.

He closes his eyes eventually, when it’s nearly five in the morning, and violent images from his weeks in the Keep force themselves upon him. He opens his eyes again, drinking in every inch of his love’s face, reminding himself that that part is over, that he’s home, that they’re safe, and that Jaskier’s still alive, despite everything.

He takes his love’s hand, pressing his lips softly to the knuckles. He remembers when they were bloody and bruised, and his mind flashes back to the battle of the Weeping Keep, so many weeks ago. He wonders if he gave off the wrong message – if Jaskier thought Geralt resented the person he’d become.

He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Sure, it did startle him, the first time he saw Jaskier killing someone – when he realized he hadn’t been able to shield his love from the darkness of the world. Then, the guilt settled in. After all, it was for _him_ that Jaskier had killed all those people, it was for _him_ that the darkness had tainted his love’s light – the light that he had tried so desperately to protect – it was for _him_ that Jaskier was now stuck with the guilt of taking someone’s life.

It was his fault. If he had paid better attention at the beachside cottage, if he had been able to fight off Nilfgaard, if he had been able to escape the Keep, before Jaskier had to rescue him, then this wouldn’t have happened, and everything would’ve been better.

If anything, Geralt was to blame, he knew, for all that had happened. Maybe he should’ve shown that better, maybe he should’ve made sure Jaskier knew that, maybe he should’ve told him.

Maybe he should’ve done a lot of things differently.

His eyes shoot open when Jaskier’s breath catches in his lungs. Tears and panic gather at the back of Geralt’s throat, and he sits up, one hand grasping his love’s hand, the other tracing the side of Jaskier’s face gently. “No, Jask, please don’t die, please don’t go,” he whispers, voice breaking, “stay with me a little longer, please.”

The tears spill over his eyelashes, trailing down his cheeks as he presses his love’s hand against his lips. He closes his eyes, curling in on himself, inhaling cinnamon and blueberries for what might be the last time in his life, like it’s his last breath. Because it very well could be. He knows he’ll die without Jaskier, knows he can’t live without his love.

Cinnamon and blueberries and Jaskier stops breathing.

Cinnamon and blueberries and his love’s heart starts faltering, skipping a beat before beating faster and faster in an effort to keep him alive just a little longer.

Cinnamon and blueberries and Geralt accepts the fact that these are the last precious, fragile moments he has left with Jaskier, and he drinks up the feeling of his love’s warm skin against his, for the last time.

Cinnamon and blueberries and he chokes out a sob before he whispers: “If you must die, my love, die knowing your life was my life’s best part,” to Jaskier.

Cinnamon and blueberries and his love’s heart skips another beat.

Cinnamon and blueberries and Geralt knows this is the end.

Cinnamon and blueberries and the hand he’s pressing to his face twitches a bit as Jaskier takes a deep breath.

Cinnamon and blueberries and he opens his eyes, turning his face, hope flaring up in his chest.

Cinnamon and blueberries and he meets eyes the colour of the sky and a smile that makes his heart thrum wildly in his chest.

“Your life is my life’s best part too,” his love whispers.

_Wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH LAWD HE WAKIN. and talkin!!!! boy oh boy we're really in it now, huh? (also hmm, wonder what Jaskier smells like, I feel like I haven't repeated it enough in this fic)
> 
> Uh. I think I got one sentence from You by Keaton Henson.


	22. Oh, Your Love Is Sunlight, Oh, Your Love Is Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> So, I accidentally forgot to update this fic for a whole-ass two weeks, and from the bottom of my heart: my bad. I'll try to get the next chapter out there a bit faster, but I do have like half a dozen WIPs right now (so if you like my writing, check those out if you haven't already)(I can especially recommend And It Echoes When I Breathe if you like fluff, or Beyond The Treeline if you like crack treated seriously)(seriously, those 2 are my fav ones so far, I really like those and I really hope y'all do too)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

It’s dark, and warm, and quiet. He tries to move, tries to open his eyes, tries to speak, but he can’t, and cold panic washes over him. The pain in his back tells him he’s lying on a table of sorts, or something similar.

However, the pain in his back is nothing compared to the ache that spreads across his body. His skin feels like it’s on fire, he can feel his bones shifting painfully deep inside him. Every ragged breath is agony, but he can’t stop, can’t quit gulping in shallow breath after shallow breath, no matter how much he wishes he could.

The pain is mostly centred around the right side of his body, the flames licking at his face, his arm, his ribcage, his hip, his leg.

He tries to open his eyes, tries to move away from the heat that threatens to consume him whole, but he can’t. He can’t move, can’t see, can’t speak, can’t do anything besides lay there and wait and hope and try and fail to scream in agony.

Then, something cool touches the left side of his face, grounding him in this world, pulling him from oblivion and flames. He can feel the wood under him clearly now, can feel the movement of air, cool against the left side of his arm – someone walking past.

Then, a voice, painfully familiar, worryingly hurt, whispering to him. He has to strain to hear the words, has to block out the pain as much as possible.

_I love you,_ the voice whispers, _I love you. Please don’t die, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me behind._ He wants to reach out, wants to find the source of the whispers, the source of the comfort that washes over him, drowning out the pain.

_I won’t,_ he wants to say, when he feels another movement of air next to him, when the coolness on the left side of his face disappears. _But please don’t leave me behind, either,_ he wants to say. But he can’t.

He can only lay there, as the flames start consuming him again, dragging him into darkness.

He thinks he hears one last _please don’t go,_ before he’s pulled under into unconsciousness.

҉ ҉ ҉

The next time he reaches the space between consciousness and unconsciousness, he’s still lying on the table. The right side of his body still burns, but less now, more subdued, like when the fire has gone out and the embers smoulder in the logs and ashes.

Once again, he feels a cool presence on his left side, a hand carding through his hair, another in his own. He hears humming, soft and low, the notes lacklustre and going in all the wrong directions. Yet, he can’t help but smile at it, smile at the effort that clearly shines through in the clipped and strained voice. Effort to hum just for him, seemingly. He doesn’t know if he’s really smiling, though. He wants to, but he can’t tell.

Still, the voice helps him calm down, helps him ground himself in reality, in here and now, wherever and whenever that may be.

He doesn’t remember.

Doesn’t remember a lot of things, really, and as much as that scares him, the fact that there’s someone right beside him makes the panic subdue at least a little bit. He knows that, even if he doesn’t remember, there’s someone there for him that does.

The humming stops, though, and he frowns. Or at least, he thinks he does – he’s not exactly sure if he’s able to move the muscles in his face anymore, and he doesn’t know if he could feel it if he was. A sigh on his left, and fingers are carding through his hair again, blunt fingernails softly scraping against his scalp, calming him down.

A slight, fluttering-light pressure on his temple – a kiss, probably, and the whispering starts again, just like it did the first time he had been drifting between conscious and unconscious. _You can do this,_ the voice whispers, low and deep and soothing, _just a few more hours until dawn, please, just a little while longer, you can do this, don’t give up, don’t let go, I love you, please hold on, please, for me._

He doesn’t know who this voice belongs to, doesn’t remember, though he feels like he should. _I’m right here,_ he wants to whisper back.

He tries to swim up, further into consciousness, but it feels like trying to claw through thick syrup, pushing him down. It’s hopeless.

_Alright then. What does he remember?_

_Geralt._

He doesn’t know where this name came from, or who exactly Geralt is, but it’s the first thing his mind presents to him. Maybe it’s his own name. Maybe it’s his father’s. Maybe his brother’s. _Does he have a brother?_ He doesn’t remember.

_Geralt._ The name repeats in his head like a prayer, letters and the sound of it slowly falling through the thick syrup, floating around him. For now, it’s probably all he’s going to be able to remember.

Before he can try swimming up again, he’s pulled down, slipping back into unconsciousness.

҉ ҉ ҉

Instead of floating back up, like last time, he’s violently pulled from the depths of his mind by a sudden pain, crackling through his body and over his skin like lightning, the thunder rumbling in his bones shortly afterwards.

He wants to scream. Tries to scream. But can’t.

When the pain’s finally subdued a bit, he firstly notices he’s no longer lying on the table. Instead, the right side of his body is pressed against something solid, covered in fabric. Secondly, there’s a pair of arms underneath him. _Someone is carrying him._

_Arms._ He remembers arms. Yes. Those pesky things attached to your body. Which means the solid thing he’s pressed against is someone’s chest. _Chest. There we go. Memories coming back._

His hip hurts most, he also notices, specifically the right side, as if someone has replaced his bones with hot iron.

_Bones._ He remembers bones as well. _Shattering._ He wonders if he’s frowning. He feels like he should be, but he’s still not sure if the muscles in his face are cooperating.

The arms tighten around him ever so slightly, and the voice starts talking to him again, this time a little louder than whispering, and coming from above him instead of next to him. Whoever the voice belongs to is carrying him, he concludes.

_We’re going upstairs, alright?_ Upstairs? Upstairs. Stone floors, wooden stairs, a hall and a walkway. Images presenting themselves to him, falling through the syrup around him.

_And then you get to sleep in an actual bed, okay? So don’t give up just yet, don’t leave me before we make it there, please?_ His heart skips a beat, though he’s not sure why.

Bed? Bed. Soft, warm, comfortable. Not as good as these arms, though. Still, the thought fills him with light, the syrup around him suddenly turning a golden shade, translucent enough for him to see more images, to hear more sounds. He remembers a cat meowing, loud and shrill, he remembers a cosy cottage filled with love, he remembers sunlight, golden and warm.

It hurts a bit when whoever’s carrying him starts walking, but the pain is drowned out by the discovery of all these memories, surrounding him, holding him in place, preventing him from slipping back down into unconsciousness.

A soft chuckle, above him, rumbling through the chest against his cheek. _One day she’s going to knock that plant down, and I’m not looking forward to having to clean that up._ She? She. Moon, the cat, always curling around the flower pots on the kitchen windowsill. He remembers. He tries to smile, but doesn’t know if he can.

Eventually, he’s placed on something soft and comfortable. The bed, he remembers. His skin, though slightly burning, mourns the loss of contact when the other person lets him go. He lies there, for a while, floating between consciousness and unconsciousness, the golden syrup around him still thick and unyielding – though it’s no longer trying to drag him down.

At some point, he feels wet cloth against his face, fingers carding through his hair softly. _Water._ He remembers water. His skin burns a bit, then cools in the places the cloth passes over. _Washing,_ he knows. Someone is washing him.

He feels his limbs growing heavier and heavier at the gentle touches, at the coolness that replaces the burn and heat of his skin, at the softness of the bed under him. At some point, when he’s almost fallen asleep, the person sits him up, letting him lean against a broad shoulder to wash his back. For a second, his right hip explodes in pain, and he would’ve cried out if he could.

Still, he would’ve sighed, as well, would’ve melted into the touch, but his limbs are heavy, and he can’t move them, can’t speak, though he does try.

Why can’t he speak?

He’s laid down on the soft bed again, and he barely registers the pain that shoots up his spine when the damp cloth touches his right hip. This time, he’s not pulled under into unconsciousness. This time, the soothing and gentle touches allow him to float down peacefully, into oblivion.

҉ ҉ ҉

Floating. He’s floating up, in the thick syrup, more and more memories and sounds and images falling around him like snow. _Snow._ He remembers snow. He remembers sticking his tongue out and catching the cold snowflakes, he remembers the crispness they left behind when they melted, he remembers a man with hair the same colour as the snow, shaking his head, yet smiling anyways.

He remembers him looking fond.

_Fondness._ He remembers fondness. He remembers that warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest every time he looked at the snowy-haired man, he remembers seeing it in the amber eyes as they looked back at him.

_Amber._ He remembers amber. His favourite colour. Like golden rays of sunshine on scarred skin. Like a field of sunflowers in the morning. Like flames dancing across the walls. Like his favourite set of eyes. Like the golden syrup he’s floating in right now.

_Syrup._ He remembers syrup. He remembers almost knocking it off the table, when he’d wanted to pour it over blueberry pancakes a boy with sea-green eyes had made. He remembers a girl with green eyes laughing at him. He remembers a woman with violet eyes smacking him in the back of his head. He remembers not being able to see amber eyes, he remembers being hugged from behind, he remembers a kiss pressed to his cheek.

He remembers.

_Ciri._ He remembers her. The crown princess of Cintra, green eyes that have seen too many horrific things too soon, things he wishes he could take from her memory. He remembers her will to fight, her wanderlust, even after everything, he remembers her kind heart, underneath it all. He remembers holding her, singing her to sleep, oh so very long ago. He remembers holding her through her nightmares, not so very long ago. He remembers tucking flowers in her hair. He remembers love in his heart.

_Rhirthi._ He remembers him. The Nilfgaardian soldier, sea-green eyes that have witnessed his own hands do things no boy his age should do, things Jaskier wishes he could lift from his mind and conscience. He remembers hugging him tightly, whenever the boy felt like he’d done something wrong, whenever he expected some sort of punishment he shouldn’t be expecting. He remembers sea-green eyes filled with wonder. He remembers those hands cooking, creating something beautiful from equally beautiful things, learning that he isn’t destined to destroy, as he’s always been told. He remembers love in his heart.

_Yennefer._ He remembers her. The Mage, violet eyes that hold so much more than she would ever show, a small glimpse into the bottomless well of love and courage and confidence she is. He remembers the initial animosity towards each other, and the friendship that bloomed afterwards. He remembers the tales she told him, of the horrors she went through at the hands of her family, of Aretuza, he remembers telling her he’s her family now. He remembers holding her close, and her holding him close, when things got bad, he remembers the home he found in her embrace. He remembers love in his heart.

_Geralt._ He remembers him. The Witcher, amber eyes that hold love and anger at the world alike, fondness at his family, regret at his actions, fear that his happiness might be taken away. He remembers his feet aching, the sun blistering on his back as he walked next to the horse – Roach. He remembers getting hurt, by monsters and men alike. He remembers singing to Geralt at night when he thought the Witcher was sleeping. He remembers evenings shared next to fires, or in taverns, or inns. He remembers days by each other’s side. He remembers the fight, he remembers the hurt. He remembers the fear and anger at the thought of never seeing Geralt again. He remembers the fear and anger and joy of seeing him again. He remembers days spent in the forest, hand in hand, he remembers days spent by the ocean, feet in the sand and the water, the breeze in their hair. He remembers blue skies and bluer waves and he remembers only caring about amber eyes and white hair. He remembers fear, he remembers anger and hurt and horror when Geralt had disappeared. He remembers fury, trying to find his Witcher. He remembers blood and stones and bodies. He remembers nightmares and fear and hurt. He remembers the edge of the cliff. He remembers a voice whispering in his ear, he remembers strong arms holding him, he remembers careful hands washing him.

He remembers love in his heart.

_Jaskier._ He remembers himself, now. The Bard turned mute, blue eyes that have seen and cried and watched and betrayed his true emotions, time and time again. He remembers his feet, carrying him next to his Witcher for decades. He remembers his voice, gone too soon. He remembers loving recklessly in the hopes of finding out what it feels like to be loved, someday. He remembers giving away his heart and getting pieces in return, time and time again. He remembers his hands, caring and hurting and fighting and longing. He remembers his wasteland. A spring meadow. A burnt down strip of land. A mountain valley in full bloom. A frozen lake. A blood-covered desert. Now, a forest. He doesn’t know what that means – he doesn’t remember this part.

He does remember his heart. Glass, broken, healed, put together. No longer his. Ciri’s. Rhirthi’s. Yennefer’s. Geralt’s. But no longer his.

Slowly, but surely, the amber syrup he’s floating in lightens up, becomes less thick, and he’s swimming up, up, up, towards the light, towards the soft skin against his hand, towards the soothing voice in his ear. Towards Geralt. Towards the love in his heart.

It takes a while to get accustomed to his own body again, when he snaps back into it. He has to remember his legs. He has to remember his arms. He has to remember his skin. He has to remember to breathe, when his lungs start to ache. He has to remember his eyes.

He doesn’t remember his hip hurting so bad before.

He finally opens his eyes, squinting against the light for a few seconds, heart skipping a painful beat when he sees Geralt – his Witcher, his love, his life. Keeper of his heart. He frowns at how sad Geralt looks.

“If you must die, my love, die knowing your life was my life’s best part.” Geralt always claims he’s no good with words. Jaskier’s always known he’s wrong.

He has to remember his hand, but he finally manages to make it twitch against Geralt’s cheek, where his love is holding it against his face.

He can’t help himself, even though he remembers it’s no use, he can’t resist the overwhelming urge to at least _try._

“Your life is my life’s best part too.” He frowns, and Geralt’s expression turns from wonder and love into horror and anger. Jaskier’s heart shatters.

_Huh._ He doesn’t remember this part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm still on tumblr @queen-squish.


	23. But It Is Sunlight, Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> I know that last chapter I said I would update more quickly. I know it's been a month. Don't @ me.   
> Either way! Things are winding to an end! This is basically the last full chapter of this fic, and the next one will be an epilogue which I'll post, like, pretty soon. Of course, I will write a long and embarrassing thank all y'all speech at the end of next chapter, but I already wanted to say thank you. For everything. For your continuing support when I started my very first fic ever all those months ago, when my uploading schedule was all over the place, when I had a bit of a mental breakdown. Just... thank you. For everything.
> 
> Without much further ado, as always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment.

“No, you’re not real. You’re not the real Jaskier,” are the first words out of Geralt’s mouth, as he pushes himself off the bed, backing away towards the wardrobe – towards the swords leaning against it.

Jaskier frowns, tries to sit up, his right hip screaming in agony as he does so, and he almost falls into the pillows again, though he manages to hold himself up on one elbow. “G- Geralt,” he rasps, then coughs, iron on his tongue, blood falling from his lips.

“You’re not real,” his love snaps, amber eyes wide and distrusting and angry and not unlike all those times he’d awoken from his nightmares – though that doesn’t mean it doesn’t _hurt_ to see his love look at him like that. It definitely doesn’t help that Geralt grabs one of his swords and unsheathes it, fury gathering on his face like a storm. “I should’ve known,” he hisses, practically _spits_ the words at Jaskier. “I should’ve known, you disgusting eel, should’ve realized it sooner when I didn’t find your fucking body. I won’t let you get away with it this time, though, you bastard.”

He advances on Jaskier, and the bard can do nothing more than crawl back on the bed, hip screaming in agony, hands and bare feet slipping away in the soft sheets. _Oh gods, is this how he’s going to die? At the hands of his love?_

_Quite a poetic death._

“Geralt!” Triss’s voice snaps from the doorway, and with a flick of her wrist, the Witcher stands still, frozen in time. Jaskier shakes his head, trying to push away the utter confusion, trying to make sense of what the fuck is even going on anymore. _When did she get here?_

Triss hurries over to his side, her hands ghosting over his body. “Are you alright?”

He shakes his head, eyes flicking between her and a frozen Geralt, who watches him with fury in those familiar, amber eyes, still. “H-hip,” he stutters, coughs up blood again.

Triss’s eyes widen, and suddenly she’s clasping his face in her hands. “You can speak.”

He blinks, then frowns. “Y-yes?” He wrenches his head out of her grip to cough up more blood, staining the creamy sheets. “Hurts.”

“Right, I have to get Yennefer.”

He nods quickly as she hurries out of the room, before he turns back to Geralt.

“ **It’s me love,** ” he signs, talking too painful right now, and, weirdly enough, very unpleasant. It’s strange and almost unsettling to curve his tongue and lips around the words, and he wonders if he just forgot how to speak. Of course, that wouldn’t really make sense – one just doesn’t _forget_ how to speak after a year and a half or so – but it just no longer feels right, not like the way he forms his words with his hands. It’s just not _him_ anymore, and he almost wishes he would lose his voice again.

He no longer wants it.

He scoots over the bed towards Geralt, ignores the sharp protests of his hip. “ **I don’t know why you’re acting like this, but-** “ his hands stutter, tears gathering in his eyes, and he can see his love’s face slowly relaxing into one of confusion, rather than rage. “ **If it’s because I _jumped,_ I’m so-**“ He stops for a second, swallows away the uncomfortable lump in his throat, stifles a sob, contorts his face in pain as he tastes iron on his tongue. “ **I’m so sorry.** ”

It is then that Yennefer stalks into the room, Triss trailing closely behind, and his best friend sighs in relief when she sees Jaskier. “Oh, thank the gods. I really didn’t feel like digging a grave today.”

Jaskier snorts. “ **Good to see you, too.** ”

She glares at Geralt, barks a “behave” at him, before un-freezing him with a flick of her wrist.

Jaskier braces himself when Geralt advances in on him again, amber eyes intense, and for a second, he gets the feeling he might get killed by his love, anyways. The sword thuds to the floor, though, and Geralt pulls him into his chest.

He sighs in relief, holding his love close, though the contact makes something crawl under his skin, for some reason. “Hi,” he mutters. “G-glad you’re n-not going to k-k-kill me.” There’s iron on his tongue, blood on his teeth and on Geralt’s shirt when he dissolves into painful coughs.

His love pulls him closer, almost painfully, and Jaskier resists the overwhelming urge to push him away. “No, I’m not,” his love whispers. “I would never hurt you. I just… I just didn’t think it was you.”

Jaskier frowns, finally pulls back. “ **Then how did you know?** ”

He can see tears in his love’s eyes as he smiles, pushing away some stray strands of hair from his face and forehead. “The sign language. And only you would apologize for almost dying.”

Jaskier looks away. “ **Almost killing myself, you mean.** ”

Geralt chuckles softly, pulls him into a hug again. “It’s okay, I understand.”

Jaskier shakes his head, again and again – _no, it’s not, no, you don’t –_ though it seems like his love is almost wilfully ignoring him, and it drives him mad. He suddenly feels tired again – too tired to be angry, too tired to do anything but let himself go limp in Geralt’s arms and succumb to the pain in his hip and his throat.

“Geralt,” Yennefer’s voice rings through the room. “I need you to leave.”

He can feel Geralt holding him tighter, and he starts pushing the Witcher away – it’s too much, too close, too warm. He’s drowning. “No,” his love whispers. _Yes,_ Jaskier wants to scream.

“Geralt.” Yenna’s voice is sharp, demanding. “Leave. Now.” It’s quiet for a few seconds. “Or I will make you.”

Finally, the Witcher lets go, and Jaskier leans back, gulping in lungfuls of fresh, cool air, basking in the sudden cold. Triss holds out an arm for Geralt, who obliges and follows her out of the room. “Let’s get some tea, shall we, Geralt?”

Yennefer closes the door behind them, before quickly walking towards Jaskier, pulling him into a tight hug, but letting go shortly afterwards, luckily – he’s just not ready for too much contact, yet.

“Come on.” She gestures with her hand. “Lay down. I need to look at your hip.” He obliges but frowns at her. “Oh, don’t give me that face, I know something’s wrong, you were in a lot of pain just now.”

“S-“ he coughs “stop reading my mind,” he rasps out, blood on his lips, iron down his throat.

She softly lays one hand against his throat, massaging lightly. “Hmm. Peculiar,” she mutters, before her hands ghost down his body, over his right hip.

“ **So why do I have my voice back?** ”

She shrugs, then looks away. “I think it’s because you died.”

He blinks. “ **I _what?_** _”_

She sighs, her hands falling limply into her lap, as she avoids his eyes, looking out of the window. “You died. At least for a short moment. Geralt doesn’t know, though – I sent him away for water when I sensed your heart giving up. And then it did. And you died. I was able to bring you back before Geralt found out, though, and I didn’t tell him because I knew he would panic. Well, at least panic _more._ ” Jaskier snorts. He can’t imagine how clingy Geralt would’ve been if he knew Jaskier had died.

“ **Thank you. For saving me. And not telling him. He’s just a little…** ”

“Much?” she asks, and he nods.

“ **But what has me dying got to do with-** “ He gestures at his throat.

She shrugs again. “Guess the djinn’s magic was undone when you died, but you came back so your voice did too.”

“ **And…** ” He looks at his hip, panic rising in his throat like bile when her face turns grave.

“It healed wrong. It’s going to keep hurting like that, unless…” She looks away, fidgets with the soft fabric of her dress. “Unless I break it again,” she whispers.

He pushes himself backwards on the bed, frantically shaking his head. He can’t do this, can’t let her just _break_ his hip. It already hurts so much, now – he can barely even imagine how much it’ll hurt if- _no._

Yenna sighs. “Look, I’m not going to do it if you don’t want it, Jask.” He relaxes, falling back into the pillows. “But,” she continues, “if you let me do it, I can at least speed up the healing process partially. Your hip is never going to be the way it used to be, but at least it won’t hurt this much.”

He swallows thickly. He really doesn’t want to do this, but every little movement already spends sparks of pain along his skin – he knows he’ll barely be able to get out of bed if he doesn’t let Yenna do what she needs to do. And he trusts her. More than anyone in the world, he trusts her.

He nods curtly. “ **Just… do it quickly.** ” She nods, and he lies down in the soft pillows, looking up at the creamy fabric of the canopy above him, as he feels her hands ghost over his hip. He waits with stuttering breath, for what feels like an agonizing eternity, until he suddenly hears a sharp _snap,_ followed by the white-hot fire of pain spreading over the right side of his body. He barely registers that he’s screaming, before everything goes to black again.

҉ ҉ ҉

When he wakes up, it’s dark outside, though he has a hard time telling from the way Geralt’s wrapped around him, blocking nearly everything from view. He closes his eyes again, tries to force himself to relax, but it’s too warm, it’s too much at once, and the panic slowly but surely sets in, until he feels like he can’t breathe anymore. His hands weakly come up to push at the sleeping Witcher’s chest, but of course, Geralt doesn’t budge.

It’s only when Jaskier shifts and pain shoots through him, making him cry out, that Geralt wakes up. Immediately, the Witcher pulls away, hands ghosting over Jaskier, amber eyes panicked.

“ **I’m fine,** ” Jaskier signs, pushing himself away from Geralt a bit, creating the distance he’s aching for. “ **It’s fine. _”_**

His love nods, and sits cross-legged on the bed next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“ **Like shit.** ”

Geralt snorts, though it contains no real humour. “Makes sense. You almost fell to your death.” _Did fall to his death._

“ **Geralt, about that-** “

“There’s nothing to apologize for. If anyone should say sorry, it’s me. I should’ve noticed something sooner, should’ve seen that you might…” Geralt looks away, before his faze returns to Jaskier’s face, intensity increasing tenfold. “I love you. More than anything. I’ll make sure you won’t forget that. Not this time.”

Jaskier hates to admit it, but the words instil something fearful in his chest. He knows what Geralt means – knows the Witcher will probably smother him with hugs and kisses and will not leave him alone for more than ten minutes. The thought makes his skin crawl.

He wants some space. More than anything, he wants some time to think about what happened, an opportunity to piece himself together. A moment to figure out the type of person he’s become, in light of recent and not-so-recent events. Some space to try and find out how to wash the blood off his hands – both Nilfgaard’s and his own as well, now.

Geralt looks at him, half expectantly, half adoringly, and Jaskier can’t help but look away. “ **What did you mean when you said that you didn’t think it was me?** ” He remembers the murderous glint in Geralt’s eyes, remembers the fear that had gripped him. _He’s never been afraid of Geralt before._

The Witcher shakes his head, looks away. “Doesn’t matter.”

_Oh, gods, this fucking game again._ He reaches out, grasps Geralt’s shirt in one hand, ignoring the pain in his hip when he shifts. “Tell me,” he manages to rasp out, the taste of copper on his tongue. “Now.”

“Jaskier…”

He lets go with an annoyed huff, unable to contain his anger any longer. “ **No. You don’t get to not talk to me anymore. I’ve tried everything- _everything_ to make you feel comfortable and safe and loved, and all you’ve done is push me away and refuse to let me in. I thought you’d changed, _Witcher,_ but you’re the same fucking person I met in Posada twenty years ago. I’m tired of not knowing what happened to you, I’m tired of you pretending it’s fine. Because it’s not fucking _fine._ So either tell me or fuck off, because I’m too tired for this.**”

He leans back in the pillows, looking up at the canopy, chest heaving as though he’s just run five miles, as Geralt stares at him. “Jaskier, I…” The Witcher sighs. “I can’t.”

“Then leave,” Jaskier rasps, not taking his eyes off the creamy fabric above him, blood in the back of his throat.

Geralt sighs again and gets up, walking to the door. He turns around, but Jaskier refuses to meet his eyes, only relaxing when he hears the door click shut behind the Witcher. He heaves a sigh, pushing the heels of his hand against his eyes, trying to force away the headache that’s forming behind his eyes. _What has he done?_

He’s made a fucking mess, is what he’s done.

A few hours later, Yennefer knocks on his door, brings him some food and lets her hands ghost over his right hip, informing him that he’ll be able to walk again in a few days. She chastises him when he thinks about how he doesn’t want to walk anymore, because what’s the point anyways? He knows what the woods look like outside the cottage, and he doesn’t trust his legs to not bring him to the edge of the cliff, anymore. He tells her to stop reading his fucking mind, of course.

After that, Ciri and Rhirthi visit him, their faces grave and tired with worry, and he feels sharp pangs of guilt carving at his insides when he hugs them and tells them that he’s sorry and that what happened is not their fault. Rhirthi stays a little longer than Ciri, just lying next to Jaskier on the bed, holding him close, and for the first time Jaskier notices how attached the teen has become to him, how the boy considers him his family now. It makes him feel even guiltier, and it only makes him pull Rhirthi closer, letting the boy hug him, even if the physical contact makes him feel slightly queasy.

It’s nearing midnight by the time Rhirthi leaves again, and Jaskier slowly lies back down in the pillows, trying to ignore the pain in his hip when he does so. He sighs when he hears another knock on the door, then resists the urge to sigh again when it cracks open a bit, Geralt poking his face around the corner.

“Can I come in?”

Jaskier nods, and the Witcher softly closes the door behind him, sits on the edge of the other side of the bed, just close enough to reach, but at a respectable distance anyways.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “ **No, I am. I should’ve been more patient.** ”

“I should’ve told you, though.”

He can’t help but grin at the canopy. “ **What a fucking mess.** ”

Geralt chuckles softly, and nods. It’s quiet for a while, and Jaskier starts to feel sleep pulling at his eyelids, when Geralt suddenly speaks up again. “I’ll tell you.” Jaskier frowns at that, and the Witcher looks away, hand coming up to rub at his shoulder, the one with the seven scars on it. “I’ll tell you,” he whispers.

҉ ҉ ҉

Jaskier wants to go back in time. He wants to go back in time and kill those Nilfgaardians all over again.

He understands, now. He understands the distrust in Geralt’s eyes when Jaskier first found him, and after every nightmare after that. He understands why him being able to speak again made his love go into a murderous rage. He understands, now.

In return for his honesty, Jaskier tells Geralt how he felt during those weeks after the rescue, what led him to the edge of the cliff. He confides in Geralt and tells him how he doesn’t really want his voice back at all, and that he’s scared to face the person he’s become. That touching makes him uncomfortable, for some reason.

They’re honest with each other, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, and by the time they’re done, Jaskier feels raw and exposed, his bruised and battered heart laid out between them, vulnerable and out in the open. But he doesn’t mind – suddenly his chest feels a lot lighter.

Geralt doesn’t hold him, as they go to sleep, a few hours before sunrise. He doesn’t hold Jaskier because he now knows how that makes the bard feel, his skin too sensitive, the memory of it bruising and tearing open too fresh to bear being touched. Instead, his love lays next to him, and looks at him, no judgement in his amber eyes – just love, and patience, and relief.

For the first time in weeks, Jaskier gets a good night’s rest. For the first time in weeks, Geralt doesn’t wake up from a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna know what I get up to when I'm not writing a fic, look no further than my tumblr, @queen-squish. It's mostly memes ngl. And more of my writing! In case you wanna see more of my typo-riddled trainwrecks lmao.


	24. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuinely forget to post the final chapter for like 2 weeks, I'm so sorry. This one isn't very long because it is the Final final chapter of this fic. There'll be a thank you monologue in the end notes lmao.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

Within a few days, he’s up and walking again, though it’s very tiring and painful, and he can only do it if he has a cane in one hand, Geralt’s arm in the other. But Yenna informs him that all in all, it should heal with minimal permanent damage. He knows what that means, though. He won’t ever walk without a cane again. He doesn’t find himself minding that much, though.

He tries to learn how to speak again, too. He really does. But all his attempts result in pain and drops of blood falling from his lips. He knows there will never be a day where he’ll be able to do it comfortably – even if the pain does stop, it’ll still feel unfamiliar and wrong, he knows. So he stops trying. He doesn’t mind being mute, and his family tells him that if he’s happy, they’re happy.

Geralt wakes up from a few nightmares, the first week after Jaskier’s fall. His eyes are still distrusting when he looks at the bard afterwards, but Jaskier only his to sign to him, and his love will relax again. Jaskier is glad that he finally knows why. Geralt tells him about the nightmares, too. Eventually, they become less and less frequent.

Eskel and Lambert visit, a few weeks before the start of winter, just as they had promised. They look a bit unsure when Jaskier greets them at the door with a cane in his hand and a few whispered words that make blood fall from his lips, but Geralt shakes his head, next to him, and they don’t ask. They leave for Kaer Morhen after a few days.

Triss is reluctant to go back to Vizima, and Yennefer is reluctant to see her go. So is Jaskier, and so is the rest – after all, Triss is part of their little family, now. Still, she steps through a portal on a bright but cold Monday morning. She appears in the garden again on Friday afternoon. It becomes a habit, one that seems to work, so they decide not to change it.

At some point, she brings them the news that Nilfgaard has been defeated once and for all, beaten down by the collective might of the northern kingdoms.

Ciri decides not to go back to Cintra. Not for now, at least. She sits the entire family down one night and tells them that she might take up her role as queen later in life, but that she’s not ready yet. She tells them she wants to spend more time with them first, and then maybe walk the Path with Eskel or Lambert for a few years, just as Jaskier once did with Geralt. Yennefer informs Aretuza of this, and Tissaia pulls some political strings, makes sure someone trustworthy is on Cintra’s throne for as long as Ciri needs to grow into her role as a queen.

Rhirthi informs them that same evening that he, too, would like to stay a while if that’s alright, and then maybe travel the Continent as well – he’s always wanted to see the ocean, wanted to see meadows and fields and rivers. He also wants to discover all the different culinary styles and cuisines. Jaskier knows he’ll grow into a wonderful person and cook, when he grows up. Not that he isn’t, already, of course. Ciri proposes that they could perhaps travel together, and says she would love to see the Continent with her big brother by her side. It makes Rhirthi cry. Jaskier’s glad he was able to give the boy the family he’s always deserved.

The first time he cries since his fall, is when Moon knocks a flowerpot off the kitchen windowsill, and he tries to get on his knees to clean it up. His hip doesn’t allow him to, and he’s left to stand in the mess of dirt and leaves and shards of clay. It’s frustrating. So he cries. Geralt comes into the kitchen and holds him, and, for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t make Jaskier’s skin crawl. For the first time in weeks, he feels comfortable holding Geralt and Geralt holding him. He’s able to give hugs more frequently after that, and he lets himself cry more often.

On the eve of the winter solstice, he takes his lute out of its case for the first time in months – for the first time since he left for the beach-side cottage with Geralt. He sits around the fire with his family, his head leaning on Geralt’s shoulder, playing soft tunes he can’t believe he remembers.

By the time the first day of spring breaks, light and warm and with the promise of a new start, there are callouses on the tips of his fingers again, there are barely any tears left for him to shed, and his heart has never been so full. He celebrates the coming of spring by taking a long walk through the woods with Geralt, just because they can. It’s slow, and a bit painful, as always, but his love is patient with him. Geralt tells him how happy he is, when Jaskier notices that he’s smiling more.

Triss tells them one weekend that she found a man with mousy brown hair and muddy eyes at the borders of what used to be Nilfgaard. She looks at Geralt when she says that the man has been locked in Vizima’s dungeons and is now awaiting a trial that will almost certainly in the death penalty. Geralt explains to Jaskier that night that it was the Eel, the person that had hurt him so during his captivity; that he’d had a hunch that the man was still out there, since his body hadn’t been found amongst the fallen soldiers after the battle of the Weeping Keep.

The Eel gets sentenced to death. Geralt can’t stop smiling for days afterwards.

҉ ҉ ҉

They get married on a warm spring day.

His walk down the aisle is slow and slightly awkward, one hand around his cane, the other clutching Yenna’s arm, as she walks patiently next to him, the eyes of his entire family turned to them, flower petals and grass rustling beneath their feet. Though all pain and discomfort is forgotten when he sees Geralt, when he meets eyes with the love of his life.

He notices his love is wearing that blue shirt that Jaskier likes so much, and he’s pleased to see Geralt’s eyes light up when he notices that Jaskier’s wearing the yellow shirt that Geralt likes so much.

“Stop being so in love, you’re going to make me gag,” Yenna mutters under her breath, and Jaskier rolls his eyes at her.

“You’re one to talk,” he whispers, copper on his tongue, as he notices how her eyes drift towards Triss. She softly pushes her shoulder into his and he laughs.

Finally, they reach the old maple tree, and Yennefer lets go of his arm, goes to stand with her girlfriend. Jaskier leans heavily on his cane, ignoring the ache in his hip, as he turns towards Vesemir, who’s standing in front of him and Geralt, white, silk ribbon in his weathered hands.

Geralt offers his hand, and Jaskier takes it, intertwining their fingers. He barely registers Vesemir wrapping the ribbon around their joined hands, barely hears him say their names, barely sees anything except Geralt, right next to him.

“I bind thee,” Vesemir says, something raw and open and fond in his voice, as he looks at Geralt and Jaskier. “You may kiss.”

Geralt softly tugs at their joined hands, pulling Jaskier in for a soft kiss, and their family erupts into cheers. Though he can barely hear them – he only hears Geralt’s whispered “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispers back, the pain in his throat forgotten.

Just this once, everything is perfect. He knows, though, that after this, the pain will return, the old hurt will make itself known again. They have a long road ahead of them, before they’re both whole again, before they can leave everything behind them.

But they’ll heal. Together.

҉ Fin ҉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so... holy shit. It's been a long and wild ride. I genuinely did not think that Wasteland 1 would gather so much attention, all those months ago, especially since it was my first fic ever and I thought the Witcher was a relatively unknown show. Boy, how wrong I was.  
> I genuinely still cannot believe that so many people not only clicked on that badly written first fic, and even less can I believe that so many of you stayed and subscribed. Genuinely, it blows my mind, and thank you all so, so much.
> 
> It's been a wild ride, these past few months (and not only because the world sort of ended), and I think one of the best decisions I've ever made is clicking on one really bad fic, in January, and being incredibly disappointed with the execution of its concept- so disappointed that I started writing my own fic to fix it. (Yes, I let spite fuel me the first time I wrote fic. Yes, I am that petty.) And it was bad! If I look back at my first Wasteland chapters, now, I cringe so hard my head retreats into my torso like a goddamn turtle.  
> But I improved! And somehow, y'all stuck around to see me improve. You guys really put up with a lot of my bullshit, and for that I, once again, have to say thank you. Seriously, thank you so much, every single one of you.
> 
> If I had a plan for this thank you-note, I completely forgot what it was. Read my other fic, I guess!  
> Bye!
> 
> EDIT; I'm @king-finnigan on tumblr now


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